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Benatos Canim 1942.9,, 


Ee. C. BENTLEY 


TRENT’S LAST 
CASE 
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BE. C. BENTLEY 


GROSSET & DUNLAP 
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 
By arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf 


were a 


COPYRIGHT I913 AND 1930 BY 
ALFRED A. KNOPF, ING. 


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
INCLUDING THE RIGHT TO REPRODUCE THIS BOOK 
OR PARTS THEREOF IN ANY FORM 


MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


To 
GILBERT KEITH CHESTERTON 


My dear Gilbert, 


I dedicate this story to you. First: because the only really 
noble motive I had in writing it was the hope that you 
would enjoy it. Second: because I owe you a book in re- 
turn for ‘The Man Who Was Thursday’ Third: because 
I said I would when I unfolded the plan of it to you, sur- 
rounded by Frenchmen, two years ago. Fourth: because 
I remember the past. 

I have been thinking again to-day of those astonishing 
times when neither of us ever looked at a newspaper; 
when we were purely happy in the boundless consump- 
tion of paper, pencils, tea, and our elders’ patience; when 
we embraced the most severe literature, and ourselves pro- 
duced such light reading as was necessary; when (in the 
words of Canada’s poet) we studied the works of nature, 
also those little frogs; when, in short, we were extremely 
young. 

For the sake of that age I offer you this book. 


Yours always, 
E. C. BENTLEY 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 


I. 
II. 


Bap News 


KNOCKING THE Town ENDWAys 


. BREAKFAST 

. HANDCUFFS IN THE AIR 
. Poxinc ABOUT 

. Mr. BUNNER ON THE CASE 
. THe Lapy in Brack 

. THE INQUEST 

. A Hor Scent 

. THE Wire or Drives 

. Hrruerro UnpPusLisHED 
. Evi. Days 

. ERUPTION 

~ Writinc A LETTER 

. DousLE CUNNING 


. THe Last Straw 





TRENT’S LAST CASE 





Chapter I 
BAD NEWS 


ETWEEN what matters and what seems to matter, how 
B should the world we know judge wisely? 

When the scheming, indomitable brain of Sigsbee Man- 
derson was scattered by a shot from an unknown hand, 
that world lost nothing worth a single tear ; it gained some- 
thing memorable in a harsh reminder of the vanity of 
such wealth as this dead man had piled up—-without mak- 
ing one loyal friend to mourn him, without doing an act 
that could help his memory to the least honour. But when 
the news of his end came, it seemed to those living in the 
great vortices of business as if the earth too shuddered un- 
der a blow. 

In all the lurid commercial history of his country there 
had been no figure that had so imposed itself upon the 
mind of the trading world. He had a niche apart in its 
temples. Financial giants, strong to direct and augment 
the forces of capital, and taking an approved toll in mil- 
lions for their labour, had existed before; but in the case 
of Manderson there had been this singularity, that a pale 
halo of piratical romance, a thing especially dear to the 
hearts of his countrymen, had remained incongruously 
about his head through the years when he stood in every 
eye as the unquestioned guardian of stability, the stamper- 
out of manipulated crises, the foe of the raiding chieftains 
that infest the borders of Wall Street. 

The fortune left by his grandfather, who had been one 
of those chieftains on the smaller scale of his day, had de- 


3 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


scended to him with accretion through his father, who 
during a long life had quietly continued to lend money 
and never had margined a stock. Manderson, who had at 
no time known what it was to be without large sums to 
his hand, should have been altogether of that newer 
American plutocracy which is steadied by the tradition 
and habit of great wealth. But it was not so. While his 
nurture and education had taught him European ideas 
of a rich man’s proper external circumstance; while they 
had rooted in him an instinct for quiet magnificence, the 
larger costliness which does not shriek of itself with a 
thousand tongues; there had been handed on to him nev- 
ertheless much of the Forty-Niner and financial bucca- 
neer, his forebear. During that first period of his business 
career which had been called his early bad manner, he 
had been little more than a gambler of genius, his hand 
against every man’s—an infant prodigy who brought to 
the enthralling pursuit of speculation a brain better en- 
dowed than any opposed to it. At St. Helena it was laid 
down that war is une belle occupation; and so the young 
Manderson had found the multitudinous and complicated 
dog-fight of the Stock Exchange of New York. . 
Then came his change. At his father’s death, when 
Manderson was thirty years old, some new revelation of 
the power and the glory of the god he served seemed to 
have come upon him. With the sudden, elastic adapta- 
bility of his nation he turned to steady labour in his fa- 
ther’s banking business, closing his ears to the sound of 
the battles of the Street. In a few years he came to control 
all the activity of the great firm whose unimpeached con- 
servatism, safety, and financial weight lifted it like a cliff 
above the angry sea of the markets. All mistrust founded 
on the performances of his youth had vanished. He was 
quite plainly a different man. How the change came about 


4 


BAD NEWS 


none could with authority say, but there was a story of 
certain last words spoken by his father, whom alone he 
had respected and perhaps loved. 

He began to tower above the financial situation. Soon 
his name was current in the bourses of the world. One 
who spoke the name of Manderson called up a vision of 
all that was broad-based and firm in the vast wealth of 
the United States. He planned great combinations of capi- 
tal, drew together and centralized industries of continen- 
tal scope, financed with unerring judgment the large de- 
signs of state or of private enterprise. Many a time when 
he ‘took hold’ to smash a strike, or to federate the owner- 
ship of some great field of labour, he sent ruin upon a 
multitude of tiny homes; and if miners or steel-workers 
or cattlemen defied him and invoked disorder, he could 
be more lawless and ruthless than they. But this was done 
in the pursuit of legitimate business ends. Tens of thou- 
sands of the poor might curse his name, but the financier 
and the speculator execrated him no more. He stretched a 
hand to protect or to manipulate the power of wealth in 
every corner of the country. Forcible, cold, and unerring, 
in all he did he ministered to the national lust for magni- 
tude; and a grateful country surnamed him the Colossus. 

But there was an aspect of Manderson in this later 
period that lay long unknown and unsuspected save by a 
few, his secretaries and lieutenants and certain of the as- 
sociates of his bygone hurling time. This little circle knew 
that Manderson, the pillar of sound business and stability 
in the markets, had his hours of nostalgia for the lively 
times when the Street had trembled at his name. It was, 
said one of them, as if Blackbeard had settled down as a 
decent merchant in Bristol on the spoils of the Main. Now 
and then the pirate would suddenly glare out, the knife 
in his teeth and the sulphur matches sputtering in his 


> 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


hatband. During such spasms of reversion to type a score 
of tempestuous raids upon the market had been planned 
on paper in the inner room of the offices of Manderson, 
Colefax and Company. But they were never carried out. 
Blackbeard would quell the mutiny of his old self within 
him and go soberly down to his counting-house—hum- 
ming a stave or two of ‘Spanish Ladies’, perhaps, under 
his breath. Manderson would allow himself the harmless 
satisfaction, as soon as the time for action had gone by, 
of pointing out to some Rupert of the markets how a 
coup worth a million to the depredator might have been 
made. ‘Seems to me,’ he would say almost wistfully, ‘the 
Street is getting to be a mighty dull place since I quit.’ By 
slow degrees this amiable weakness of the Colossus be- 
came known to the business world, which exulted greatly 
in the knowledge. 


At the news of his death panic went through the markets 
like a hurricane; for it came at a luckless time. Prices tot- 
tered and crashed like towers in an earthquake. For two 
days Wall Street was a clamorous inferno of pale despair. 
All over the United States, wherever speculation had its 
devotees, went a waft of ruin, a plague of suicide. In 
Europe also not a few took with their own hands lives 
that had become pitiably linked to the destiny of a finan- 
cier whom most of them had never seen. In Paris a well- 
known banker walked quietly out of the Bourse and fell 
dead upon the broad steps among the raving crowd of 
Jews, a phial crushed in his hand. In Frankfort one leapt 
from the Cathedral top, leaving a redder stain where he 
struck the red tower. Men stabbed and shot and strangled 
themselves, drank death or breathed it as the air, because 


6 


BAD NEWS 


in a lonely corner of England the life had departed from 
one cold heart vowed to the service of greed. 

The blow could not have fallen at a more disastrous 
moment. It came when Wall Street was in a condition of 
suppressed ‘scare’-—suppressed, because for a week past 
the great interests known to act with or to be actually 
controlled by the Colossus had been desperately combat- 
ing the effects of the sudden arrest of Lucas Hahn, and 
the exposure of his plundering of the Hahn banks. This 
bombshell, in its turn, had fallen at a time when the mar- 
ket had been ‘boosted’ beyond its real strength. In the lan- 
guage of the place, a slump was due. Reports from the corn- 
hands had not been good, and there had been two or three 
railway statements which had been expected to be much 
better than they were. But at whatever point in the vast 
area of speculation the shudder of the threatened break 
had been felt, ‘the Manderson crowd’ had stepped in and 
held the market up. All through the week the speculator’s 
mind, as shallow as it is quick-witted, as sentimental as 
greedy, had seen in this the hand of the giant stretched 
out in protection from afar. Manderson, said the news- 
papers in chorus, was in hourly communication with his 
lieutenants in the Street. One journal was able to give in 
round figures the sum spent on cabling between New 
York and Marlstone in the past twenty-four hours; it told 
how a small staff of expert operators had been sent down 
by the Post Office authorities to Marlstone to deal with 
the flood of messages. Another revealed that Manderson, 
on the first news of the Hahn crash, had arranged to 
abandon his holiday and return home by the Mauretania; 
but that he soon had the situation so well in hand that he 
had determined to remain where he was. 

All this was falsehood, more or less consciously elabo- 


7 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


rated by the ‘finance editors’, consciously initiated and en- 
couraged by the shrewd business men of the Manderson 
group, who knew that nothing could better help their 
plans than this illusion of hero-worship—knew also that 
no word had come from Manderson in answer to their 
messages, and that Howard B. Jeffrey, of Steel and Iron 
fame, was the true organizer of victory. So they fought 
down apprehension through four feverish days, and minds 
grew calmer. On Saturday, though the ground beneath 
the feet of Mr. Jeffrey yet rumbled now and then with 
Etna-mutterings of disquiet, he deemed his task almost 
done. The market was firm, and slowly advancing. Wall 
Street turned to its sleep of Sunday, worn out but thank- 
fully at peace. 

In the first trading hour of Monday a hideous rumour 
flew round the sixty acres of the financial district. It came 
into being as the lightning comes—a blink that seems to 
begin nowhere; though it is to be suspected that it was 
first whispered over the telephone—together with an ur- 
gent selling order—by some employee in the cable service. 
A sharp spasm convulsed the convalescent share-list. In 
five minutes the dull noise of the kerbstone market in 
Broad Street had leapt to a high note of frantic interroga- 
tion. From within the hive of the Exchange itself could 
be heard a droning hubbub of fear, and men rushed hat- 
less in and out. Was it true? asked every man; and every 
man replied, with trembling lips, that it was a lie put out 
by some unscrupulous ‘short’ interest seeking to cover it- 
self. In another quarter-of-an-hour news came of a sudden 
and ruinous collapse of ‘Yankees’ in London at the close 
of the Stock Exchange day. It was enough. New York 
had still four hours’ trading in front of her. The strategy 
of pointing to Manderson as the saviour and warden of 
the markets had recoiled upon its authors with annihilat- 


8 


BAD NEWS 


ing force, and Jeffrey, his ear at his private telephone, lis- 
tened to the tale of disaster with a set jaw. The new 
Napoleon had lost his Marengo. He saw the whole finan- 
cial landscape sliding and falling into chaos before him. 
In half-an-hour the news of the finding of Manderson’s 
body, with the inevitable rumour that it was suicide, was 
printing in a dozen newspaper offices; but before a copy 
reached Wall Street the tornado of the panic was in full 
fury, and Howard B. Jeffrey and his collaborators were 
whirled away like leaves before its breath. 


All this sprang out of nothing. 

Nothing in the texture of the general life had changed. 
The corn had not ceased to ripen in the sun. The rivers 
bore their barges and gave power to a myriad engines. 
The flocks fattened on the pastures, the herds were un- 
_numbered. Men laboured everywhere in the various servi- 
tudes to which they were born, and chafed not more than 
usual in their bonds. Bellona tossed and murmured as 
ever, yet still slept her uneasy sleep. To all mankind save 
a million or two of half-crazed gamblers, blind to all 
reality, the death of Manderson meant nothing; the life 
and work of the world went on. Weeks before he died 
strong hands had been in control of every wire in the 
huge network of commerce and industry that he had su- 
pervised. Before his corpse was buried his countrymen 
had made a strange discovery—that the existence of the 
potent engine of monopoly that went by the name of 
Sigsbee Manderson had not been a condition of even ma- 
terial prosperity. The panic blew itself out in two days, 
the pieces were picked up, the bankrupts withdrew out of 
sight; the market ‘recovered a normal tone’. 

While the brief delirium was yet subsiding there broke 


») 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


out a domestic scandal in England that suddenly fixed the 
attention of two continents. Next morning the Chicago 
Limited was wrecked, and the same day a notable politi- 
cian was shot down in cold blood by his wife’s brother 
in the streets of New Orleans. Within a week of its aris- 
ing, ‘the Manderson story’, to the trained sense of editors 
throughout the Union, was ‘cold’. The tide of American 
visitors pouring through Europe made eddies round the 
memorial or statue of many a man who had died in poy- 
erty; and never thought of their most famous plutocrat. 
Like the poet who died in Rome, so young and poor, a 
hundred years ago, he was buried far away from his own 
land; but for all the men and women of Manderson’s 
people who flock round the tomb of Keats in the ceme- 
tery under the Monte Testaccio, there is not one, nor ever 
will be, to stand in reverence by the rich man’s grave be- 
side the little church of Marlstone. 


Chapter II: 


KNOCKING THE TOWN ENDWAYS 


N the only comfortably furnished room in the offices of 
I the Record, the telephone on Sir James Molloy’s table 
buzzed. Sir James made a motion with his pen, and Mr. 
Silver, his secretary, left his work and came over to the 
instrument. 

“Whois that?’ he said.“Who? ... Ican’t hear you... . 
Oh, it’s Mr. Bunner, is it? . . . Yes, but . . . I know, but 
he’s fearfully busy this afternoon. Can’t you ... Oh, 
really? Well, in that case—just hold on, will you?’ 

He placed the receiver before Sir James. ‘It’s Calvin 
Bunner, Sigsbee Manderson’s right-hand man,’ he said 
concisely. “He insists on speaking to you personally. Says 
it is the gravest piece of news. He is talking from the 
house down by Bishopsbridge, so it will be necessary to 
speak clearly.’ 

Sir James looked at the telephone, not affectionately, 
and took up the receiver. “Well?’ he said in his strong 
voice, and listened. ‘Yes,’ he said. The next moment Mr. 
Silver, eagerly watching him, saw a look of amazement 
and horror. ‘Good God!’ murmured Sir James. Clutching 
the instrument, he slowly rose to his feet, still bending ear 
intently. At intervals he repeated ‘Yes.’ Presently, as he 
listened, he glanced at the clock and spoke quickly to Mr. 
Silver over the top of the transmitter. ‘Go and hunt up 
Figgis and young Williams. Hurry.’ Mr. Silver darted 
from the room. 

The great journalist was a tall, strong, clever Irishman 

II 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


of fifty, swart and black-moustached, a man of untiring 
business energy, well known in the world, which he un- 
derstood very thoroughly, and played upon with the half- 
cynical competence of his race. Yet was he without a touch 
of the charlatan: he made no mysteries, and no pretences 
of knowledge, and he saw instantly through these in 
others. In his handsome, well-bred, well-dressed appear- 
ance there was something a little sinister when anger or 
intense occupation put its imprint about his eyes and 
brow; but when his generous nature was under no re- 
straint he was the most cordial of men. He was managing 
director of the company which owned that most powerful 
morning paper, the Record, and also that most indispen- 
sable evening paper, the Sun, which had its offices on the 
other side of the street. He was, moreover, editor-in-chief 
of the Record, to which he had in the course of years at- 
tached the most variously capable personnel in the coun- 
try. It was a maxim of his that where you could not get 
gifts, you must do the best you could with solid merit; 
and he employed a great deal of both. He was respected 
by his staff as few are respected in a profession not favour- 
able to the growth of the sentiment of reverence. 

‘Youre sure that’s all?’ asked Sir James, after a few 
minutes of earnest listening and questioning. ‘And how 
long has this been known? ... Yes, of course, the police 
are; but the servants? Surely it’s all over the place down 
there by now. . . . Well, we'll have atry. . . . Look here, 
Bunner, I’m infinitely obliged to you about this. I owe 
you a good turn. You know I mean what I say. Come 
and see me the first day you get to town. .. . All right, 
that’s understood. Now I must act on your news. Good- 
bye.’ 

Sir James hung up the receiver, and seized a railway 
time-table from the rack before him. After a rapid con- 


I2 


KNOCKING THE TOWN ENDWAYS 


sultation of this oracle, he flung it down with a forcible 
word as Mr. Silver hurried into the room, followed by a 
hard-featured man with spectacles, and a youth with an 
alert eye. 

‘I want you to jot down some facts, Figgis,’ said Sir 
James, banishing all signs of agitation and speaking with 
a rapid calmness. “When you have them, put them into 
shape just as quick as you can for a special edition of the 
Sun. The hard-featured man nodded and glanced at the 
clock, which pointed to a few minutes past three; he 
pulled out a notebook and drew a chair up to the big 
writing-table. ‘Silver, Sir James went on, ‘go and tell 
Jones to wire our local correspondent very urgently, to 
drop everything and get down to Marlstone at once. He 
is not to say why in the telegram. There must not be an 
unnecessary word about this news until the Suz is on the 
streets with it—you all understand. Williams, cut across 
the way and tell Mr. Anthony to hold himself ready for a 
two-column opening that will knock the town endways. 
Just tell him that he must take all measures and precau- 
tions for a scoop. Say that Figgis will be over in five min- 
utes with the facts, and that he had better let him write 
up the story in his private room. As you go, ask Miss 
Morgan to see me here at once, and tell the telephone 
people to see if they can get Mr. Trent on the wire for 
me. After seeing Mr. Anthony, return here and stand by.’ 
The alert-eyed young man vanished like a spirit. 

Sir James turned instantly to Mr. Figgis, whose pencil 
was poised over the paper. ‘Sigsbee Manderson has been 
murdered, he began quickly and clearly, pacing the floor 
with his hands behind him. Mr. Figgis scratched down 
a line of shorthand with as much emotion as if he had 
been told that the day was fine—the pose of his craft. “He 
and his wife and two secretaries have been for the past 


13 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


fortnight at the house called White Gables, at Marlstone, 
near Bishopsbridge. He bought it four years ago. He and 
Mrs. Manderson have since spent a part of each summer 
there. Last night he went to bed about half-past eleven, 
just as usual. No one knows when he got up and left the 
house. He was not missed until this morning. About ten 
o'clock his body was found by a gardener. It was lying 
by a shed in the grounds. He was shot in the head, 
through the left eye. Death must have been instantaneous. 
The body was not robbed, but there were marks on the 
wrists which pointed to a struggle having taken place. 
Dr. Stock, of Marlstone, was at once sent for, and will 
conduct the post-mortem examination. The police from 
Bishopsbridge, who were soon on the spot, are reticent, 
but it is believed that they are quite without a clue to the 
identity of the murderer. There you are, Figgis. Mr. An- 
thony is expecting you. Now I must telephone him and 
arrange things.’ 

Mr. Figgis looked up. “One of the ablest deauives at 
Scotland Yard,’ he suggested, ‘has been put in charge of 
the case. It’s a safe statement.’ 

‘If you like,’ said Sir James. 

‘And Mrs. Manderson? Was she there?’ 

‘Yes. What about her?’ 

‘Prostrated by the shock,’ hinted the reporter, ‘and sees 
nobody. Human interest.’ 

‘I wouldn’t put that in, Mr. Figgis,’ said a quiet voice. 
It belonged to Miss Morgan, a pale, graceful woman, who 
had silently made her appearance while the dictation was 
going on. ‘I have seen Mrs. Manderson,’ she proceeded, 
turning to Sir James. ‘She looks quite healthy and intelli- 
gent. Has her husband been murdered? I don’t think the 
shock would prostrate her. She is more likely to be doing 
all she can to help the police.’ 


14 


KNOCKING THE TOWN ENDWAYS 


‘Something in your own style, then, Miss Morgan,’ he 
said with a momentary smile. Her imperturbable eff- 
ciency was an office proverb. “Cut it out, Figgis. Off you 
go! Now, madam, I expect you know what I want.’ 

‘Our Manderson biography happens to be well up to 
date,’ replied Miss Morgan, drooping her dark eyelashes 
as she considered the position. ‘I was looking over it only 
a few months ago. It is practically ready for to-morrow’s 
paper. I should think the Sum had better use the sketch 
of his life they had about two years ago, when he went 
to Berlin and settled the potash difficulty. I remember it 
was a very good sketch, and they won’t be able to carry 
much more than that. As for our paper, of course we have 
a great quantity of cuttings, mostly rubbish. The sub- 
editors shall have them as soon as they come in. Then we 
have two very good portraits that are our own property; 
the best is a drawing Mr. Trent made when they were 
both on the same ship somewhere. It is better than any 
of the photographs; but you say the public prefers a bad 
photograph to a good drawing. I will send them down 
to you at once, and you can choose. As far as I can see, 
the Record is well ahead of the situation, except that you 
will not be able to get a special man down there in time 
to be of any use for to-morrow’s paper.’ 

Sir James sighed deeply. “What are we good for, any- 
how?’ he inquired dejectedly of Mr. Silver, who had re- 
turned to his desk. ‘She even knows Bradshaw by heart.’ 

Miss Morgan adjusted her cuffs with an air of patience. 
‘Is there anything else?’ she asked, as the telephone bell 
rang. 

"Yes, one thing,’ replied Sir James, as he took up the 
receiver. ‘I want you to make a bad mistake some time, 
Miss Morgan—an everlasting bloomer—just to put us in 


15 


TRENT’ S LAST CASE 


countenance.’ She permitted herself the fraction of what 
would have been a charming smile as she went out. 

‘Anthony?’ asked Sir James, and was at once deep in 
consultation with the editor on the other side of the road. 
He seldom entered the Sun building in person; the at- 
mosphere of an evening paper, he would say, was all very 
well if you liked that kind of thing. Mr. Anthony, the 
Murat of Fleet Street, who delighted in riding the whirl- 
wind and fighting a tumultuous battle against time, would 
say the same of a morning paper. 

It was some five minutes later that a uniformed boy 
came in to say that Mr. Trent was on the wire. Sir James 
abruptly closed his talk with Mr. Anthony. 

“They can put him through at once,’ he said to the boy. 

‘Hullo!’ he cried into the telephone after a few mo- 
ments. 

A voice in the instrument replied, “Hullo be blowed! 
What do you want?’ 

‘This is Molloy,’ said Sir James. 

‘I know it is, the voice said. “This is Trent. He is in the 
middle of painting a picture, and he has been interrupted 
at a critical moment. Well, I hope it’s something impor- 
tant, that’s all!’ 

‘Trent,’ said Sir James impressively, “it is important. I 
want you to do some work for us.’ 

‘Some play, you mean,’ replied the voice. “Believe me, 
I don’t want a holiday. The working fit is very strong. 
I am doing some really decent things. Why can’t you 
leave a man alone?’ 

‘Something very serious has happened.’ 

“What ?? 

‘Sigsbee Manderson has been murdered—shot through 
the brain—and they don’t know who has done it. They 
found the body this morning. It happened at his place 

16 


KNOCKING THE TOWN ENDWAYS 


near Bishopsbridge.’ Sir James proceeded to tell the hear- 
er, briefly and clearly, the facts that he had communicated 
to Mr. Figgis. “What do you think of it?’ he ended. 

A considering grunt was the only answer. 

‘Come now,’ urged Sir James. 

“Tempter!” 

‘You will go down?’ 

There was a brief pause. 

“Are you there?’ said Sir James. 

‘Look here, Molloy,’ the voice broke out querulously, 
‘the thing may be a case for me, or it may not. We can’t 
possibly tell. It may be a mystery; it may be as simple as 
bread and cheese. The body not being robbed looks in- 
teresting, but he may have been outed by some wretched 
tramp whom he found sleeping in the grounds and tried 
to kick out. It’s the sort of thing he would do. Such a 
murderer might easily have sense enough to know that 
to leave the money and valuables was the safest thing. I 
tell you frankly, I wouldn’t have a hand in hanging a 
poor devil who had let daylight into a man like Sig Man- 
derson as a measure of social protest.’ 

Sir James smiled at the telephone—a smile of success. 
‘Come, my boy, you're getting feeble. Admit you want to 
go and have a look at the case. You know you do. If it’s 
anything you don’t want to handle, you’re free to drop it. 
By the by, where are you?’ 

‘I am blown along a wandering wind,’ replied the voice 
irresolutely, ‘and hollow, hollow, hollow all delight.’ 

‘Can you get here within an hour?’ persisted Sir James. 

‘I suppose I can,’ the voice grumbled. ‘How much time 
have I?’ 

‘Good man! Well, there’s time enough—that’s just the 
worst of it. I’ve got to depend on our local correspondent 
for to-night. The only good train of the day went half-an- 


17 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


hour ago. The next is a slow one, leaving Paddington at 
midnight. You could have the Buster, if you like-—Sir 
James referred to a very fast motor car of his—but you 
wouldn’t get down in time to do anything to-night.’ 

‘And I'd miss my sleep. No, thanks. The train for me. 
I am quite fond of railway travelling, you know; I have 
a gift for it. I am the stoker and the stoked. I am the song 
the porter sings.’ 

“What’s that you say?’ 

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said the voice sadly. ‘I say,’ it con- 
tinued, ‘will your people look out a hotel near the scene 
of action, and telegraph for a room?’ 

‘At once,’ said Sir James. “Come here as soon as you 
can.’ 

He replaced the receiver. As he turned to his papers 
again a shrill outcry burst forth in the street below.. He 
walked to the open window. A band of excited boys was 
rushing down the steps of the Sum building and up the 
narrow thoroughfare toward Fleet Street. Each carried a 
bundle of newspapers and a large broadsheet with the 
simple legend:— 


MURDER OF 


SIGSBEE 


MANDERSON 





Sir James smiled and rattled the money in his pockets 
cheerfully. | 


18 


KNOCKING THE TOWN ENDWAYS 


‘Tt makes a good bill, he observed to Mr. Silver, who 
stood at his elbow. 
Such was Manderson’s epitaph. 


19 


Chapter III 
BREAKFAST 


ya about eight o’clock in the morning of the follow- 
ing day Mr. Nathaniel Burton Cupples stood on 
the verandah of the hotel at Marlstone. He was thinking 
about breakfast. In his case the colloquialism must be 
taken literally; he really was thinking about breakfast, as 
he thought about every conscious act of his life when time 
allowed deliberation. He reflected that on the preceding 
day the excitement and activity following upon the dis- 
covery of the dead man had disorganized his appetite and 
led to his taking considerably less nourishment than usual. 
This morning he was very hungry, having already been 
up and about for an hour; and he decided to allow him- 
self a third piece of toast and an additional -egg; the rest 
as usual. The remaining deficit must be made up at lunch- 
eon, but that could be gone into later. 

So much being determined, Mr. Cupples applied him- 
self to the enjoyment of the view for a few minutes before 
ordering his meal. With a connoisseur’s eye he explored 
the beauty of the rugged coast, where a great pierced 
rock rose from a glassy sea, and the ordered loveliness 
of the vast tilted levels of pasture and tillage and wood- 
land that sloped gently up from the cliffs toward the dis- 
tant moor. Mr. Cupples delighted in landscape. 

He was a man of middle height and spare figure, nearly 
sixty years old, by constitution rather delicate in health, 
but wiry and active for his age. A sparse and straggling 
beard and moustache did not conceal a thin but kindly 


a, 
ee 4 


BREAKFAST 


mouth; his eyes were keen and pleasant; his sharp nose 
and narrow jaw gave him very much of a clerical air, and 
this impression was helped by his commonplace dark 
clothes and soft black hat. The whole effect of him, in- 
deed, was priestly. He was a man of unusually conscien- 
tious, industrious, and orderly mind, with little imagina- 
tion. His father’s household had been used to recruit its 
domestic establishment by means of advertisements in 
which it was truthfully described as a serious family. 
From that fortress of gloom he had escaped with two 
saintly gifts somehow unspoiled: an inexhaustible kind- 
ness of heart, and a capacity for innocent gaiety which 
owed nothing to humour. In an earlier day and with a 
clerical training he might have risen to the scarlet hat. 
He was, in fact, a highly regarded member of the London 
Positivist Society, a retired banker, a widower without 
children. His austere but not unhappy life was spent 
largely among books and in museums; his profound and 
patiently accumulated knowledge of a number of curiously 
disconnected subjects which had stirred his interest at 
different times had given him a place in the quiet, half-lit 
world of professors and curators and devotees of research; 
at their amiable, unconvivial dinner parties he was most 
himself. His favourite author was Montaigne. 

Just as Mr. Cupples was finishing his meal at a little 
table on the verandah, a big motor turned into the drive 
before the hotel. “Who is this?’ he inquired of the waiter. 
‘Id is der manager,’ said the young man listlessly. “He 
have been to meed a gendleman by der train.’ 

The car drew up and the porter hurried from the en- 
trance. Mr. Cupples uttered an exclamation of pleasure 
as a long, loosely-built man, much younger than himself, 
stepped from the car and mounted the verandah, flinging 
his hat on a chair. His high-boned, quixotic face wore a 


21 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


pleasant smile; his rough tweed clothes, his hair and 
short moustache were tolerably untidy. 

‘Cupples, by all that’s miraculous!’ cried the man, 
pouncing upon Mr. Cupples before he could rise, and 
seizing his outstretched hand in a hard grip. “My luck is 
serving me to-day,’ the new-comer went on spasmodically. 
“This is the second slice within an hour. How are you, 
my best of friends? And why are you here? Why sit’st 
thou by that ruined breakfast? Dost thou its former pride 
recall, or ponder how it passed away? I am glad to see 
you!’ 

‘I was half expecting you, Trent,’ Mr. Cupples replied, 
his face wreathed in smiles. “You are looking splendid, my 
dear fellow. I will tell you all about it. But you cannot 
have had your own breakfast yet. Will you have it at my 
table here?’ 

‘Rather!’ said the man. ‘An enormous great breakfast, 
too—with refined conversation and tears of recognition 
never dry. Will you get young Siegfried to lay a place for 
me while I go and wash? I shan’t be three minutes.’ He 
disappeared into the hotel, and Mr. Cupples, after a mo- 
ment’s thought, went to the telephone in the porter’s 
office. 

He returned to find his friend already seated, pouring 
out tea, and showing an unaffected interest in the choice 
of food. ‘I expect this to be a hard day for me,’ he said, 
with the curious jerky utterance which seemed to be his 
habit. ‘I shan’t eat again till the evening, very likely. You - 
guess why I’m here, don’t you?’ 

‘Undoubtedly,’ said Mr. Cupples. “You have come down 
to write about the murder.’ 

“That is rather a colourless way of stating it,’ the man 
called Trent replied, as he dissected a sole. ‘I should prefer 
to put it that I have come down in the character of aveng- 

22 


BREAKFAST 


er of blood, to hunt down the guilty, and vindicate the 
honour of society. That is my line of business. Families 
waited on at their private residences. I say, Cupples, I have 
made a good beginning already. Wait a bit, and I'll tell 
you.’ There was a silence, during which the new-comer 
ate swiftly and abstractedly, while Mr. Cupples looked on 
happily. 

‘Your manager here,’ said the tall man at last, ‘is a fel- 
low of remarkable judgment. He is an admirer of mine. 
He knows more about my best cases than I do myself. 
The Record wired last night to say I was coming, and 
when I got out of the train at seven o’clock this morning, 
there he was waiting for me with a motor car the size of 
a hay-stack. He is beside himself with joy at having me 
here. It is fame.’ He drank a cup of tea and continued: 
“Almost his first words were to ask me if I would like to 
see the body of the murdered man—if so, he thought he 
could manage it for me. He is as keen as a razor. The 
body lies in Dr. Stock’s surgery, you know, down in the 
village, exactly as it was when found. It’s to be post-mor- 
tem’d this morning, by the way, so I was only just in 
time. Well, he ran me down there to the doctor’s, giving 
me full particulars about the case all the way. I was pretty 
well au fait by the time we arrived. I suppose the mana- 
ger of a place like this has some sort of a pull with the doc- 
tor. Anyhow, he made no difficulties, nor did the consta- 
ble on duty, though he was careful to insist on my not 
giving him away in the paper.’ 

‘I saw the body before it was removed,’ remarked Mr. 
Cupples. ‘I should not have said there was anything re- 
markable about it, except that the shot in the eye had 
scarcely disfigured the face at all, and caused scarcely any 
effusion of blood, apparently. The wrists were scratched 


23 


TRENT S‘SLAST (CASE 


and bruised. I expect that, with your trained faculties, you 
were able to remark other details of a suggestive nature.’ 

‘Other details, certainly; but I don’t know that they 
suggest anything. They are merely odd. Take the wrists, 
for instance. How was it you could see bruises and 
scratches on them? I dare say you saw something of Man- 
derson down here before the murder.’ 

‘Certainly, Mr. Cupples said. 

“Well, did you ever see his wrists?’ 

Mr. Cupples reflected. ‘No. Now you raise the point, I 
am reminded that when I interviewed Manderson here 
he was wearing stiff cuffs, coming well down over his 
hands.’ 

‘He always did,’ said Trent. ‘My friend the manager 
says so. I pointed out to him the fact you didn’t observe, 
that there were no cuffs visible, and that they had, indeed, 
been dragged up inside the coat-sleeves, as yours would be 
if you hurried into a coat without pulling your cuffs 
down. That was why you saw his wrists.’ : 

‘Well, I call that suggestive,’ observed Mr. Cupples 
mildly. “You might infer, perhaps, that when he got up 
he hurried over his dressing.’ 

‘Yes, but did he? The manager said just what you say. 
“He was always a bit of a swell in his dress,” he told me, 
and he drew the inference that when Manderson got up 
in that mysterious way, before the house was stirring, and 
went out into the grounds, he was in a great hurry. “Look 
at his shoes,” he said to me: “Mr. Manderson was always 
specially neat about his foot-wear. But those shoe-laces 
were tied in a hurry.” I agreed. “And he left his false 
teeth in his room,” said the manager. “Doesn’t that prove 
he was flustered and hurried?” I allowed that it looked 
like it. But I said, “Look here: if he was so very much 
pressed, why did he part his hair so carefully? That part- 


24 


BREAKFAST 


ing isa work of art. Why did he put on so much? for he had 
on a complete outfit of underclothing, studs in his shirt, 
sock-suspenders, a watch and chain, money and keys and 
things in his pockets.” That’s what I said to the manager. 
He couldn’t find an explanation. Can you?’ 

Mr. Cupples considered. “Those facts might suggest 
that he was hurried only at the end of his dressing. Coat 
and shoes would come last.’ 

‘But not false teeth. You ask anybody who wears them. 
And besides, I’m told he hadn’t washed at all on get- 
ting up, which in a neat man looks like his being in a 
violent hurry from the beginning. And here’s another 
thing. One of his waistcoat pockets was lined with wash- 
leather for the reception of his gold watch. But he had 
put his watch into the pocket on the other side. Anybody 
who has settled habits can see how odd that is. The fact 
is, there are signs of great agitation and haste, and there 
are signs of exactly the opposite. For the present I am not 
guessing. I must reconnoitre the ground first, if I can 
manage to get the right side of the people of the house.’ 
Trent applied himself again to his breakfast. 

Mr. Cupples smiled at him benevolently. “That is pre- 
cisely the point,’ he said, ‘on which I can be of some as- 
sistance to you.’ Trent glanced up in surprise. ‘I told you 
I half expected you. I will explain the situation. Mrs. Man- 
derson, who is my niece—— 

‘What!’ Trent laid down his knife and fork with a 
clash. ‘Cupples, you are jesting with me.’ 

‘Tam perfectly serious, Trent, really, returned Mr. Cup- 
ples earnestly. ‘Her father, John Peter Domecq, was my 
wife’s brother. I never mentioned my niece or her mar- 
riage to you before, I suppose. To tell the truth, it 
has always been a painful subject to me, and I have 
avoided discussing it with anybody. To return to what I 


25 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


was about to say: last night, when I was over at the house 
—by the way, you can see it from here. You passed it in 
the car.’ He indicated a red roof among poplars some 
three hundred yards away, the only building in sight that 
stood separate from the tiny village in the gap below 
them. 

‘Certainly I did, said Trent. “The manager told me all 
about it, among other things, as he drove me in from 
Bishopsbridge.’ 

‘Other people here have heard of you and your perform- 
ances,’ Mr. Cupples went on. ‘As I was saying, when I 
was over there last night, Mr. Bunner, who is one of Man- 
derson’s two secretaries, expressed a hope that the Record 
would send you down to deal with the case, as the police 
seemed quite at a loss. He mentioned one or two of your 
past successes, and Mabel—my niece—was interested when 
I told her afterwards. She is bearing up wonderfully well, 
Trent; she has remarkable fortitude of character. She said 
she remembered reading your articles about the Abinger 
case. She has a great horror of the newspaper side of this 
sad business, and she had entreated me to do anything 
I could to keep journalists away from the place—I’m sure 
you can understand her feeling, Trent; it isn’t really any 
reflection on that profession. But she said you appeared 
to have great powers as a detective, and she would not 
stand in the way of anything that might clear up the 
crime. Then I told her you were a personal friend of mine, 
and gave you a good character for tact and consideration 
of others’ feelings; and it ended in her saying that, if you 
should come, she would like you to be helped in every 
way.’ 

Trent leaned across the table and shook Mr. Cupples 
by the hand in silence. Mr. Cupples, much delighted with 
the way things were turning out, resumed: : 


26 


BREAKFAST 


‘I spoke to my niece on the telephone only just now, 
and she is glad you are here. She asks me to say that you 
may make any inquiries you like, and she puts the house 
and grounds at your disposal. She had rather not see you 
herself; she is keeping to her own sitting-room. She has 
already been interviewed by a detective officer who is 
there, and she feels unequal to any more. She adds that 
she does not believe she could say anything that would 
be of the smallest use. The two secretaries and Martin, the 
butler (who is a most intelligent man), could tell you all 
you want to know, she thinks.’ 

Trent finished his breakfast with a thoughtful brow. 
He filled a pipe slowly, and seated himself on the rail of 
the verandah. ‘Cupples,’ he said quietly, ‘is there anything 
about this business that you know and would rather not 
tell me?’ 

Mr. Cupples gave a slight start, and turned an aston- 
ished gaze on the questioner. “What do you mean?’ he 
said. 

‘I mean about the Mandersons. Look here! shall I tell 
you a thing that strikes me about this affair at the very 
beginning? Here’s a man suddenly and violently killed, 
and nobody’s heart seems to be broken about it, to say 
the least. The manager of this hotel spoke to me about 
him as coolly as if he’d never set eyes on him, though I 
understand they’ve been neighbours every summer for 
some years. Then you talk about the thing in the coldest 
of blood. And Mrs. Manderson—well, you won’t mind 
my saying that I have heard of women being more cut 
up about their husbands being murdered than she seems 
to be. Is there something in this, Cupples, or is it my 
fancy? Was there something queer about Manderson? I 
travelled on the same boat with him once, but never 
spoke to him. I only know his public character, which 


27 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


was repulsive enough. You see, this may have a bearing 
on the case; that’s the only reason why I ask.’ 

Mr. Cupples took time for thought. He fingered his 
sparse beard and looked out over the sea. At last he turned 
to Trent. ‘I see no reason,’ he said, ‘why I shouldn’t tell 
you as between ourselves, my dear fellow. I need not 
say that this must not be referred to, however distantly. 
The truth is that nobody really liked Manderson; and I 
think those who were nearest to him liked him least.’ 

‘Why?’ the other interjected. 

‘Most people found a difficulty in explaining why. In 
trying to account to myself for my own sensations, I could 
only put it that one felt in the man a complete absence 
of the sympathetic faculty. There was nothing outwardly 
repellent about him. He was not ill-mannered, or vicious, 
or dull—indeed, he could be remarkably interesting. But 
I received the impression that there could be no human 
creature whom he would not sacrifice in the pursuit of 
his schemes, in his task of imposing himself and his will 
upon the world. Perhaps that was fanciful, but I think 
not altogether so. However, the point is that Mabel, I am 
sorry to say, was very unhappy. I am nearly twice your 
age, my dear boy, though you always so kindly try to 
make me feel as if we were contemporaries—I am getting 
to be an old man, and a great many people have been 
good enough to confide their matrimonial troubles to me; 
but I never knew another case like my niece’s and her 
husband’s. I have known her since she was a baby, Trent, 
and I know—you understand, I think, that I do not em- 
ploy that word lightly—I know that she is as amiable and 
honourable a woman, to say nothing of her other good 
gifts, as any man could wish. But Manderson, for some 
time past, had made her miserable.’ 

‘What did he do?’ asked Trent, as Mr. Cupples paused. 

28 


BREAKFAST 


‘When I put that question to Mabel, her words were 
that he seemed to nurse a perpetual grievance. He main- 
tained a distance between them, and he would say noth- 
ing. I don’t know how it began or what was behind it, 
and all she would tell me on that point was that he had 
no cause in the world for his attitude. I think she knew 
what was in his mind, whatever it was; but she is full of 
pride. This seems to have gone on for months. At last, a 
week ago, she wrote to me. I am the only near relative 
she has. Her mother died when she was a child; and 
after John Peter died I was something like a father to her 
until she married—that was five years ago. She asked me 
to come and help her, and I came at once. That is why I 
am here now.’ 

Mr. Cupples paused and drank some tea. Trent smoked 
and stared out at the hot June landscape. 

‘I would not go to White Gables,’ Mr. Cupples resumed. 
“You know my views, I think, upon the economic constitu- 
tion of society, and the proper relationship of the capitalist 
to the employee, and you know, no doubt, what use that 
person made of his vast industrial power upon several 
very notorious occasions. I refer especially to the trouble 
in the Pennsylvania coal-fields, three years ago. I regarded 
him, apart from all personal dislike, in the light of a 
criminal and a disgrace to society. I came to this hotel, 
and I saw my niece here. She told me what I have more 
briefly told you. She said that the worry and the humilia- 
tion of it, and the strain of trying to keep up appearances 
before the world, were telling upon her, and she asked for 
my advice. I said I thought she should face him and de- 
mand an explanation of his way of treating her. But she 
would not do that. She had always taken the line of af- 
fecting not to notice the change in his demeanour, and 
nothing, I knew, would persuade her to admit to him 


29 


TRENT’ S LAST CASE 


that she was injured, once pride had led her into that 
course. Life is quite full, my dear Trent, said Mr. Cup- 
ples with a sigh, ‘of these obstinate silences and cultivated 
. misunderstandings.’ 

‘Did she love him?’ Trent inquired abruptly. Mr. Cup- 
ples did not reply at once. ‘Had she any love left for him?’ 
Trent amended. 

Mr. Cupples played with his tea-spoon. ‘I am bound to 
say, he answered slowly, ‘that I think not. But you must 
not misunderstand the woman, Trent. No power on earth 
would have persuaded her to admit that to any one—even 
to herself, perhaps so long as she considered herself bound 
to him. And I gather that, apart from this mysterious sulk- 
ing of late, he had always been considerate and generous.’ 

‘You were saying that she refused to have it out with 
him.’ 

‘She did,’ replied Mr. Cupples. ‘And I knew by experi- 
ence that it was: quite useless to attempt to move a Do- 
mecq where the sense of dignity was involved. So I 
thought it over carefully, and next day I watched my op- 
portunity and met Manderson as he passed by this hotel. 
I asked him to favour me with a few minutes’ conserva- 
tion, and he stepped inside the gate down there. We had 
held no communication of any kind since my niece’s mar- 
riage, but he remembered me, of course. I put the matter 
to him at once and quite definitely. I told him what Ma- 
bel had confided to me. I said that I would neither ap- 
prove nor condemn her action in bringing me into the 
business, but that she was suffering, and I considered it 
my right to ask how he could justify himself in placing 
her in such a position.’ 

‘And how did he take that?’ said Trent, smiling se- 
cretly at the landscape. The picture of this mildest of men 
calling the formidable Manderson to account pleased him. 


30 


BREAKFAST 


‘Not very well, Mr. Cupples replied sadly. ‘In fact, far 
from well. I can tell you almost exactly what he said—it 
wasn't much. “See here, Cupples, you don’t want to butt 
in. My wife can look after herself. ’'ve found that out, 
along with other things.” He was perfectly quiet—you 
know he was said never to lose control of himself—though 
there was a light in his eyes that would have frightened 
a man who was in the wrong, I dare say. But I had been 
thoroughly roused by his last remark, and the tone of it, 
_ which I cannot reproduce. You see,’ said Mr. Cupples 
simply, “I love my niece. She is the only child that there 
has been in our—in my house. Moreover, my wife brought 
her up as a girl, and any reflection on Mabel I could not 
help feeling, in the heat of the moment, as an indirect 
reflection upon one who is gone.’ 

“You turned upon him,’ suggested Trent in a low tone. 
“You asked him to explain his words.’ 

“That is precisely what I did, said Mr. Cupples. ‘For a 
moment he only stared at me, and I could see a vein on 
his forehead swelling—an unpleasant sight. Then he said 
quite quietly, “This thing has gone far enough, I guess,” 
and turned to go.’ 

‘Did he mean your interview?’ Trent asked thought- 
fully. 

‘From the words alone you would think so,’ Mr. Cup- 
ples answered. ‘But the way in which he uttered them 
gave me a strange and very apprehensive feeling. I re- 
ceived the impression that the man had formed some sin- 
ister resolve. But I regret to say I had lost the power of 
dispassionate thought. I fell into a great rage’-—Mr. Cup- 
ples’ tone was mildly apologetic—‘and said a number of 
foolish things. I reminded him that the law allowed a 
measure of freedom to wives who received intolerable 
treatment. I made some utterly irrelevant references to 


31 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


his public record, and expressed the view that such men 
as he were unfit to live. I said these things, and others as 
ill-considered, under the eyes, and very possibly within 
earshot, of half-a-dozen persons sitting on this verandah. 
I noticed them, in spite of my agitation, looking at me as 
I walked up to the hotel again after relieving my mind— 
for it undoubtedly did relieve it, sighed Mr. Cupples, ly- 
ing back in his chair. 

‘And Manderson? Did he say no more?” 

‘Not a word. He listened to me with his eyes on my 
face, as quiet as before. When I stopped he smiled very 
slightly, and at once turned away and strolled through 
the gate, making for White Gables.’ 

‘And this happened——?’ 

‘On the Sunday morning.’ 

‘Then I suppose you never saw him alive again?’ 

‘No,’ said Mr. Cupples. ‘Or rather yes—once. It was 
later in the day, ‘on the golf-course. But I did not speak to 
him. And next morning he was found dead.’ 

The two regarded each other in silence for a few mo- 
ments. A party of guests who had been bathing came up 
the steps and seated themselves, with much chattering, at 
a table near them. The waiter approached. Mr. Cupples 
rose, and, taking Trent’s arm, led him to a long tennis- 
lawn at the side of the hotel. 

‘I have a reason for telling you all this, began Mr. OH 
ples as they paced slowly up and down. 

“Trust you for that,’ rejoined Trent, carefully filling his 
pipe again. He lit it, smoked a little, and then said, “Tl 
try and guess what your reason is, if you like.’ 

Mr. Cupples’s face of solemnity relaxed into a slight 
smile. He said nothing. 

“You thought it possible,’ said Trent meditatively—may 


32 


BREAKFAST 


I say you thought it practically certain?P—that I should 
find out for myself that there had been something deeper 
than a mere conjugal tiff between the Mandersons. You 
thought that my unwholesome imagination would begin 
at once to play with the idea of Mrs. Manderson having 
something to do with the crime. Rather than that I should 
lose myself in barren speculations about this, you decided 
to tell me exactly how matters stood, and incidentally to 
impress upon me, who know how excellent your judg- 
ment is, your opinion of your niece. Is that about right?’ 

‘It is perfectly right. Listen to me, my dear fellow,’ said 
Mr. Cupples earnestly, laying his hand on the other’s arm. 
‘I am going to be very frank. I am extremely glad that 
Manderson is dead. I believe him to have done nothing 
but harm in the world as an economic factor. I know that 
he was making a desert of the life of one who was like 
my own child to me. But I am under an intolerable dread 
of Mabel being involved in suspicion with regard to the 
murder. It is horrible to me to think of her delicacy and 
goodness being in contact, if only for a time, with the 
brutalities of the law. She is not fitted for it. It would 
mark her deeply. Many young women of twenty-six in 
these days could face such an ordeal, I suppose. I have ob- 
served a sort of imitative hardness about the products 
of the higher education of women to-day which would 
carry them through anything, perhaps. I am not prepared 
to say it is a bad thing in the conditions of feminine life 
prevailing at present. Mabel, however, is not like that. She 
is as unlike that as she is unlike the simpering misses that 
used to surround me as a child. She has plenty of brains; 
she is full of character; her mind and her tastes are cul- 
tivated; but it is all mixed up’—Mr. Cupples waved his 
hands in a vague gesture—‘with ideals of refinement and 


33 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


reservation and womanly mystery. I fear she is not a child 
of the age. You never knew my wife, Trent. Mabel is my 
wife’s child.’ 

The younger man bowed his head. They paced the 
length of the lawn before he asked gently, “Why did she 
marry him?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ said Mr. Cupples briefly. 

‘Admired him, I suppose,’ suggested Trent. 

Mr. Cupples shrugged his shoulders. ‘I have been told 
that a woman will usually be more or less attracted by 
the most successful man in her circle. Of course we can- 
not realize how a wilful, dominating personality like his 
would influence a girl whose affections were not bestowed 
elsewhere; especially if he laid himself out to win her. It 
is probably an overwhelming thing to be courted by a 
man whose name is known all over the world. She had 
heard of him, of course, as a financial great power, and 
she had no idea—she had lived mostly among people of 
artistic or literary propensities—how much soulless in- 
humanity that might involve. For all I know, she has no 
adequate idea of it to this day. When I first heard of the 
affair the mischief was done, and I knew better than to 
interpose my unsought opinions. She was of age, and 
there was absolutely nothing against him from the con- 
ventional point of view. Then I dare say his immense 
wealth would cast a spell over almost any woman. Mabel 
had some hundreds a year of her own; just enough, per- 
haps, to let her realize what millions really meant. But all 
this is conjecture. She certainly had not wanted to marry 
some scores of young fellows who to my knowledge had 
asked her; and though I don’t believe, and never did be- 
lieve, that she really loved this man of forty-five, she cer- 
tainly did want to marry him. But if you ask me why, I 
can only say I don’t know.’ 


34 


BREAKFAST 


Trent nodded, and after a few more paces looked at his 
watch. ‘You've interested me so much,’ he said, ‘that I had 
quite forgotten my main business. I mustn’t waste my 
morning. I am going down the road to White Gables at 
once, and I dare say I shall be poking about there until 
midday. If you can meet me then, Cupples, I should like 
to talk over anything I find out with you, unless some- 
thing detains me.’ 

‘I am going for a walk this morning, Mr. Cupples re- 
plied. ‘I meant to have luncheon at a little inn near the 
golf-course, The Three Tuns. You had better join me 
there. It’s farther along the road, about a quarter of a mile 
beyond White Gables. You can just see the roof between 
those two trees. The food they give one there is very plain, 
but good.’ 

‘So long as they have a cask of beer,’ said Trent, ‘they 
are all right. We will have bread and cheese, and oh, may 
Heaven our simples lives prevent from luxury’s conta- 
gion, weak and vile! Till then, good-bye.’ He strode off 
to recover his hat from the verandah, waved it to Mr. 
Cupples, and was gone. 

The old gentleman, seating himself in a deck-chair on 
the lawn, clasped his hands behind his head and gazed up 
into the speckless blue sky. ‘He is a dear fellow,’ he mur- 
mured. “The best of fellows. And a terribly acute fellow. 
Dear me! How curious it all is!’ 


35 


Chapter IV 
HANDCUFFS IN THE AIR 
ANS and the son of a painter, Philip Trent had 


while yet in his twenties achieved some reputation 
within the world of English art. Moreover, his pictures 
sold. An original, forcible talent and a habit of leisurely 
but continuous working, broken by fits of strong creative 
enthusiasm, were at the bottom of it. His father’s name 
had helped; a patrimony large enough to relieve him of 
the perilous imputation of being a struggling man had 
certainly not hindered. But his best aid to success had 
been an unconscious power of getting himself liked. Good 
spirits and a lively, humorous fancy will always be popu- 
lar. Trent joined to these a genuine interest in others that 
gained him something deeper than popularity. His judg- 
ment of persons was penetrating, but its process was in- 
ternal; no one felt on good behaviour with a man who 
seemed always to be enjoying himself. Whether he was 
in a mood for floods of nonsense or applying himself vig- 
orously to a task, his face seldom lost its expression of con- 
tained vivacity. Apart from a sound knowledge of his art 
and its history, his culture was large and loose, dominated 
by a love of poetry. At thirty-two he had not yet passed 
the age of laughter and adventure. 

His rise to a celebrity a hundred times greater than his 
proper work had won for him came of a momentary im- 
pulse. One day he had taken up a newspaper to find it 
chiefly concerned with a crime of a sort curiously rare in 
our country—a murder done in a railway train. The cir- 


36 


HANDCUFFS IN THE AIR 


cumstances were puzzling; two persons were under arrest 
upon suspicion. Trent, to whom an interest in such affairs 
was a new sensation, heard the thing discussed among his 
friends, and set himself in a purposeless mood to read up 
the accounts given in several journals. He became in- 
trigued; his imagination began to work, in a manner 
strange to him, upon facts; an excitement took hold of 
him such as he had only known before in his bursts of art- 
inspiration or of personal adventure. At the end of the 
day he wrote and dispatched a long letter to the editor of 
the Record, which he chose only because it had contained 
the fullest and most intelligent version of the facts. 

In this letter he did very much what Poe had done in 
the case of the murder of Mary Rogers. With nothing but 
the newspapers to guide him, he drew attention to the 
significance of certain apparently negligible facts, and 
ranged the evidence in such a manner as to throw grave 
suspicion upon a man who had presented himself as a 
witness. Sir James Molloy had printed this letter in leaded 
type. The same evening he was able to announce in the 
Sun the arrest and full confession of the incriminated 
man. 

Sir James, who knew all the worlds of London, had lost 
no time in making Trent’s acquaintance. The two men 
got on well, for Trent possessed some secret of native tact 
which had the effect of almost abolishing differences of 
age between himself and others. The great rotary presses 
in the basement of the Record building had filled him 
with a new enthusiasm. He had painted there, and Sir 
James had bought at sight, what he called a machinery- 
scape in the manner of Heinrich Kley. 

Then a few months later came the affair known as the 
Ilkley mystery. Sir James had invited Trent to an emol- 
lient dinner, and thereafter offered him what seemed to 


37 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


the young man a fantastically large sum for his temporary 
services as special representative of the Record at Ilkley. 

‘You could do it,’ the editor had urged. ‘You can write 
good stuff, and you know how to talk to people, and I 
can teach you all the technicalities of a reporter’s job in 
half an hour. And you have a head for a mystery; you 
have imagination and cool judgment along with it. Think 
how it would feel if you pulled it off 

Trent had admitted that it would be rather a lark. He 
had smoked, frowned, and at last convinced himself that 
the only thing that held him back was fear of an unfa- 
miliar task. To react against fear had become a fixed 
moral habit with him, and he had accepted Sir James’s 
offer. 

He had pulled it off. For the second time he had given 
the authorities a start and a beating, and his name was 
on all tongues. He withdrew and painted pictures. He 
felt no leaning towards journalism, and Sir James, who 
knew a good deal about art, honourably refrained—as 
other editors did not—from tempting him with a good 
salary. But in the course of a few years he had applied to 
him perhaps thirty times for his services in the unravel- 
ling of similar problems at home and abroad. Sometimes 
Trent, busy with work that held him, had refused; some- 
times he had been forestalled in the discovery of the truth. 
But the result of his irregular connection with the Record 
had been to make his name one of the best known in Eng- 
land. It was characteristic of him that his name. was al- 
most the only detail of his personality known to the pub- 
lic. He had imposed absolute silence about himself upon 
the Molloy papers; and the others were not going to ad- 
vertise one of Sir James’s men. 


38 


HANDCUFFS IN THE AIR 


The Manderson case, he told himself as he walked rap- 
idly up the sloping road to White Gables, might turn out 
to be terribly simple. Cupples was a wise old boy, but it 
was probably impossible for him to have an impartial 
opinion about his niece. But it was true that the manager 
of the hotel, who had spoken of her beauty in terms that 
aroused his attention, had spoken even more emphatically 
of her goodness. Not an artist in words, the manager. had 
yet conveyed a very definite idea to Trent’s mind. “There 
isn’t a child about here that don’t brighten up at the sound 
of her voice, he had said, ‘nor yet a grown-up, for the 
matter of that. Everybody used to look forward to her 
coming over in the summer. I don’t mean that she’s one 
of those women that are all kind heart and nothing else. 
There’s backbone with it, if you know what I mean— 
pluck—any amount of go. There’s nobody in Marlstone 
that isn’t sorry for the lady in her trouble—not but what 
some of us may think she’s lucky at the last of it.’ Trent 
wanted very much to meet Mrs. Manderson. 

He could see now, beyond a spacious lawn and shrub- 
bery, the front of the two-storied house of dull-red brick, 
with the pair of great gables from which it had its name. 
He had had but a glimpse of it from the car that 
morning. A modern house, he saw; perhaps ten years 
old. The place was beautifully kept, with that air of opu- 
lent peace that clothes even the smallest houses of the 
well-to-do in an English countryside. Before it, beyond 
the road, the rich meadow-land ran down to the edge of 
the cliffs; behind it a woody landscape stretched away 
across a broad vale to the moors. That such a place could 
be the scene of a crime of violence seemed fantastic; it lay 
so quiet and well ordered, so eloquent of disciplined serv- 
ice and gentle living. Yet there beyond the house, and 


39 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


near the hedge that rose between the garden and the hot, 
white road, stood the gardener’s toolshed, by which the 
body had been found, lying tumbled against the wooden 
wall. 

Trent walked past the gate of the drive and along the 
road until he was opposite this shed. Some forty yards 
farther along the road turned sharply away from the 
house, to run between thick plantations; and just before 
the turn the grounds of the house ended, with a small 
white gate at the angle of the boundary hedge. He ap- 
proached the gate, which was plainly for the use of gar- 
deners and the service of the establishment. It swung 
easily on its hinges, and he passed slowly up a path that 
led towards the back of the house, between the outer 
hedge and a tall wall of rhododendrons. Through a gap in 
this wall a track led him to the little neatly-built erection 
of wood, which stood among trees that faced a corner of 
the front. The body had laid on the side away from the 
house; a servant, he thought, looking out of the nearer 
windows in the earlier hours of the day before, might 
have glanced unseeing at the hut, as she wondered what 
it could be like to be as rich as the master. 

He examined the place carefully and ransacked the hut 
within, but he could note no more than the trodden ap- 
pearance of the uncut grass where the body had lain. 
Crouching low, with keen eyes and feeling fingers, he 
searched the ground minutely over a wide area; but the 
search was fruitless. 

It was interrupted by the sound—the first he had heard 
from the house—of the closing of the front door. Trent 
unbent his long legs and stepped to the edge of the drive. 
A man was walking quickly away from the house in the 
direction of the great gate. 

At the noise of a footstep on the gravel, the man wheeled 


40 


HANDCUFFS IN THE AIR 


with nervous swiftness and looked earnestly at Trent. The 
sudden sight of his face was almost terrible, so white and 
worn it was. Yet it was a young man’s face. There was 
not a wrinkle about the haggard blue eyes, for all their 
tale of strain and desperate fatigue. As the two approached 
each other, Trent noted with admiration the man’s 
breadth of shoulder and lithe, strong figure. In his car- 
riage, inelastic as weariness had made it; in his handsome, 
regular features; in his short, smooth, yellow hair; and in 
his voice as he addressed Trent, the influence of a special 
sort of training was confessed. ‘Oxford was your play- 
ground, I think, my young friend,’ said Trent to himself. 

‘If you are Mr. Trent, said the young man pleasantly, 
‘you are expected. Mr. Cupples telephoned from the hotel. 
My name is Marlowe.’ 

“You were secretary to Mr. Manderson, I believe,’ said 
Trent. He was much inclined to like young Mr. Marlowe. 
Though he seemed so near a physical break-down, he 
gave out none the less that air of clean living and inward 
health that is the peculiar glory of his social type at his 
years. But there was something in the tired eyes that was 
a challenge to Trent’s penetration; an habitual expression, 
as he took it to be, of meditating and weighing things not 
present to their sight. It was a look too intelligent, too 
steady and purposeful, to be called dreamy. Trent thought 
he had seen such a look before somewhere. He went on 
to say: ‘It is a terrible business for all of you. I fear it has 
upset you completely, Mr. Marlowe.’ 

‘A little limp, that’s all,’ replied the young man wearily. 
‘I was driving the car all Sunday night and most of yes- 
terday, and I didn’t sleep last night after hearing the news 
—who would? But I have an appointment now, Mr. 
Trent, down at the doctor’s—arranging about the inquest. 
I expect it'll be to-morrow. If you will go up to the house 


Al 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


and ask for Mr. Bunner, you'll find him expecting you; 
he will tell you all about things and show you round. He’s 
the other secretary; an American, and the best of fellows; 
he'll look after you. There’s a detective here, by the way— 
Inspector Murch, from Scotland Yard. He came yester- 
day.’ 

‘Murch!’ Trent exclaimed. ‘But he and I are old friends. 
How under the sun did he get here so soon?’ 

‘I have no idea,’ Mr. Marlowe answered. “But he was 
here last evening, before I got back from Southampton, in- 
terviewing everybody, and he’s been about here since eight 
this morning. He’s in the library now—that’s where the 
open French window is that you see at the end of the 
house there. Perhaps you would like to step down there 
and talk about things.’ 

‘T think I will, said Trent. Marlowe nodded and went 
on his way. The thick turf of the lawn round which the 
drive took its circular sweep made Trent’s footsteps as 
noiseless as a cat’s. In a few moments he was looking in 
through the open leaves of the window at the southward 
end of the house, considering with a smile a very broad 
back and a bent head covered with short grizzled hair. 
The man within was stooping over a number of papers 
laid out on the table. 

‘T'was ever thus,’ said Trent in a melancholy tone, at 
the first sound of which the man within turned round 
with startling swiftness. From childhood’s hour I’ve seen 
my fondest hopes decay. I did think I was ahead of Scot- 
land Yard this time, and now here is the largest officer 
in the entire Metropolitan force we occupying the 
position.’ 

The detective smiled grimly and came to the window. 
‘I was expecting you, Mr. Trent,’ he said. “This is the sort 
of case that you like,’ 


42 


HANDCUFFS IN THE AIR 


‘Since my tastes were being considered, Trent replied, 
stepping into the room, ‘I wish they had followed up the 
idea by keeping my hated rival out of the business. You 
have got a long start, too—I know all about it.’ His eyes 
began to wander round the room. ‘How did you manage 
it? You are a quick mover, I know; the dun deer’s hide 
on fleeter foot was never tied; but I don’t see how you got 
here in time to be at work yesterday evening. Has Scot- 
land Yard secretly started an aviation corps? Or is it in 
league with the infernal powers? In either case the Home 
Secretary should be called upon to make a statement.’ 

‘It’s simpler than that, said Mr. Murch with profes- 
sional stolidity. ‘I happened to be on leave with the missis 
at Halvey, which is only twelve miles or so along the 
coast. As soon as our people there heard of the murder 
they told me. I wired to the Chief, and was put in charge 
of the case at once. I bicycled over yesterday evening, 
and have been at it since then.’ 

‘Arising out of that reply,’ said Trent inattentively, ‘how 
is Mrs. Inspector Murch?’ 

“Never better, thank you,’ answered the inspector, ‘and 
frequently speaks of you and the games you used to have 
with our kids. But you'll excuse me saying, Mr. Trent, 
that you needn’t trouble to talk your nonsense to me while 
you're using your eyes. I know your ways by now. I un- 
derstand you've fallen on your feet as usual, and have the 
lady’s permission to go over the place and make inquiries.’ 

‘Such is the fact,’ said Trent. ‘I am going to cut you out 
again, inspector. I owe you one for beating me over the 
Abinger case, you old fox. But if you really mean that 
you're not inclined for the social amenities just now, let 
us leave compliments and talk business.’ He stepped to 
the table, glanced through the papers arranged there in 
order, and then turned to the open roll-top desk. He 


43 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


looked into the drawers swiftly. ‘I see this has been cleared 
out. Well now, inspector, I suppose we play the game as 
before.’ 

Trent had found himself on a number of occasions in 
the past thrown into the company of Inspector Murch, 
who stood high in the councils of the Criminal Investi- 
gation Department. He was a quiet, tactful, and very 
shrewd officer, a man of great courage, with a vivid his- 
tory in connection with the more dangerous class of crim- 
inals. His humanity was as broad as his frame, which was 
large even for a policeman. Trent and he, through some 
obscure working of sympathy, had appreciated one an- 
other from the beginning, and had formed one of those 
curious friendships with which it was the younger man’s 
delight to adorn his experience. The inspector would talk 
more freely to him than to any one, under the rose, and 
they would discuss details and possibilities of every case, 
to their mutual enlightenment. There were necessary 
rules and limits. It was understood between them that 
Trent made no journalistic use of any point that could 
only have come to him from an official source. Each of 
them, moreover, for the honour and prestige of the insti- 
tution he represented, openly reserved the right to with- 
hold from the other any discovery or inspiration that 
might come to him which he considered vital to the so- 
lution of the difficulty. Trent had insisted on carefully 
formulating these principles of what he called detective 
sportsmanship. Mr. Murch, who loved a contest, and who 
only stood to gain by his, association with the keen intel- 
ligence of the other, entered very heartily into ‘the game’. 
In these strivings for the credit of the press and of the 
police, victory sometimes attended the experience and 
method of the officer, sometimes the quicker brain and 


44 


HANDCUFFS IN THE AIR 


livelier imagination of Trent, his gift of instinctively rec- 
ognizing the significant through all disguises. 

The inspector then replied to Trent’s last words with 
cordial agreement. Leaning on either side of the French 
window, with the deep peace and hazy splendour of the 
summer landscape before them, they reviewed the case. 


Trent had taken out a thin notebook, and as they talked 
he began to make, with light, secure touches, a rough 
sketch plan of the room. It was a thing he did habitually 
on such occasions, and often quite idly, but now and then 
the habit had served him to good purpose. 

This was a large, light apartment at the corner of the 
house, with generous window-space in two walls. A broad 
table stood in the middle. As one entered by the window 
the roll-top desk stood just to the left of it against the 
wall. The inner door was in the wall to the left, at the 
farther end of the room; and was faced by a broad win- 
dow divided into openings of the casement type. A beau- 
tifully carved old corner-cupboard rose high against the 
wall beyond the door, and another cupboard filled a re- 
cess beside the fire-place. Some coloured prints of Ha- 
runobu, with which Trent promised himself a better 
acquaintance, hung on what little wall-space was unoc- 
cupied by books. These had a very uninspiring appear- 
ance of having been bought by the yard and never taken 
from their shelves. Bound with a sober luxury, the great 
English novelists, essayists, historians, and poets stood 
ranged like an army struck dead in its ranks. There were 
a few chairs made, like the cupboard and table, of old 
carved oak; a modern arm-chair and a swivel office-chair 
before the desk. The room looked costly but very bare. 


45 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


Almost the only portable objects were a great porcelain 
bowl of a wonderful blue on the table, a clock and some 
cigar boxes on the mantel-shelf, and a movable telephone 
standard on the top of the desk. 

‘Seen the body?’ inquired the inspector. 

Trent nodded. ‘And the place where it lay,’ he said. 

‘First impressions of this case rather puzzle me,’ said 
the inspector. ‘From what I heard at Halvey I guessed it © 
might be common robbery and murder by some tramp, 
though such a thing is very far from common in these 
parts. But as soon as I began my inquiries I came on some 
curious points, which by this time I dare say you’ve noted 
for yourself. The man is shot in his own grounds, quite 
near the house, to begin with. Yet there’s not the slightest 
trace of any attempt at burglary. And the body wasn’t 
robbed. In fact, it would be as plain a case of suicide as 
you could wish to see, if it wasn’t for certain facts. Here’s 
another thing; for a month or so past, they tell me, Man- 
derson had been in a queer state of mind. I expect you 
know already that he and his wife had some trouble be- 
tween them. The servants had noticed a change in his — 
manner to her for a long time, and for the past week he 
had scarcely spoken to her. They say he was a changed 
man, moody and silent—whether on account of that or 
something else. The lady’s maid says he looked as if some- 
thing was going to arrive. It’s always easy to remember 
that people looked like that, after something has hap- 
pened to them. Still, that’s what they say. There you are 
again, then: suicide! Now, why wasn’t it suicide, Mr. 
Trent?’ : 

‘The facts so far as I know them are really all against 
it, Trent replied, sitting on the threshold of the window 
and clasping his knees. ‘First, of course, no weapon is to 
be found. I’ve searched, and you’ve searched, and there’s 

46 


HANDCUFFS IN THE AIR 


no trace of any firearm anywhere within a stone’s throw 
of where the body lay. Second, the marks on the wrists, 
fresh scratches and bruises, which we can only assume 
to have been done in a struggle with somebody. Third, 
who ever heard of anybody shooting himself in the eye? 
Then I heard from the manager of the hotel here another 
fact, which strikes me as the most curious detail in this 
affair. Manderson had dressed himself fully before going 
out there, but he forgot his false teeth. Now how could 
a suicide who dressed himself to make a decent appear- 
ance as a corpse forget his teeth?’ 

“That last argument hadn’t struck me, admitted Mr. 
Murch. “There’s something in it. But on the strength of 
the other points, which had occurred to me, I am not con- 
sidering suicide. I have been looking about for ideas in 
this house, this morning. I expect you were thinking of 
doing the same.’ 

“That is so. It is a case for ideas, it seems to me. Come, 
Murch, let us make an effort; let us bend our spirits to a 
temper of general suspicion. Let us suspect everybody in 
the house, to begin with. Listen: I will tell you whom I 
suspect. I suspect Mrs. Manderson, of course. I also suspect 
both the secretaries—I hear there are two, and I hardly 
know which of them I regard as more thoroughly open 
to suspicion. I suspect the butler and the lady’s maid. I 
suspect the other domestics, and especially do I suspect 
the boot-boy. By the way, what domestics are there? I 
have more than enough suspicion to go round, whatever 
the size of the establishment; but as a matter of curiosity 
I should like to know.’ 

‘All very well to laugh,’ replied the inspector, “but at 
the first stage of affairs it’s the only safe principle, and 
you know that as well as I do, Mr. Trent. However, I’ve 
seen enough of the people here, last night and to-day, to 


47 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


put a few of them out of my mind for the present at least. 
You will form your own conclusions. As for the estab- 
lishment, there’s the butler and lady’s maid, cook, and 
three other maids, one a young girl. One chauffeur, who’s 
away with a broken wrist. No boy.’ 

‘What about the gardener? You say nothing about that 
shadowy and sinister figure, the gardener. You are keep- 
ing him in the background, Murch. Play the game. Out 
with him—or I report you to the Rules Committee.’ 

“The garden is attended to by a man in the village, who 
comes twice a week. I’ve talked to him. He was here last 
on Friday.’ 

“Then I suspect him all the more,’ said Trent. “And now 
as to the house itself. What I propose to do, to begin with, 
is to sniff about a little in this room, where I am told 
Manderson spent a great deal of his time, and in his bed- 
room; especially the bedroom. But since we’re in this 
room, let’s start here. You seem to be at the same stage 
of the inquiry. Perhaps you’ve done the bedrooms al- 
ready?’ 

The inspector nodded. ‘I’ve been over Manderson’s and 
his wife’s. Nothing to be got there, I think. His room is 
very simple and bare, no signs of any sort that J could see. 
Seems to have insisted on the simple life, does Mander- 
son. Never employed a valet. The room’s almost like a 
- cell, except for the clothes and shoes. You'll find it all ex- 
actly as I found it; and they tell me that’s exactly as Man- 
derson left it, at we don’t know what o'clock yesterday 
morning. Opens into Mrs. Manderson’s bedroom—not 
much of the cell about that, I can tell you. I should say 
the lady was as fond of pretty things as most. But she 
cleared out of it on the morning of the discovery—told 
the maid she could never sleep in a room opening into - 
her murdered husband’s room. Very natural feeling in a 


48 


HANDCUFFS IN THE AIR 


woman, Mr. Trent. She’s camping out, so to say, in one 
of the spare bedrooms now.’ 

‘Come, my friend,’ Trent was saying to himself, as he 
made a few notes in his little book. ‘Have you got your 
eye on Mrs. Manderson? Or haven’t you? I know that 
colourless tone of the inspectorial voice. I wish I had seen 
her. Either you’ve got something against her and you 
don’t want me to get hold of it; or else you’ve made up 
your mind she’s innocent, but have no objection to my 
wasting my time over her. Well, it’s all in the game; 
which begins to look extremely interesting as we go on.’ 
To Mr. Murch he said aloud: ‘Well, Pll draw the bed- 
room later on. What about this?’ 

“They call it the library,’ said the inspector. ‘Manderson 
used to do his writing and that in here; passed most of 
the time he spent indoors here. Since he and his wife 
ceased to hit it off together, he had taken to spending his 
evenings alone, and when at this house he always spent 
em in here. He was last seen alive, as far as the servants 
are concerned, in this room.’ 

Trent rose and glanced again through the papers set out 
on the table. “Business letters and documents, mostly,’ said 
Mr. Murch. ‘Reports, prospectuses, and that. A few letters 
on private matters, nothing in them that I can see. The 
American secretary—Bunner his name is, and a queerer 
card I never saw turned—he’s been through this desk with 
me this morning. He had got it into his head that Man- 
derson had been receiving threatening letters, and that 
the murder was the outcome of that. But there’s no trace 
of any such thing; and we looked at every blessed paper. 
The only unusual things we found were some packets of 
bank-notes to a considerable amount, and a couple of lit- 
tle bags of unset diamonds. I asked Mr. Bunner to put 
them in a safer place. It appears that Manderson had be- 


49 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


sun buying diamonds lately as a speculation—it was a 
new game to him, the secretary said, and it seemed to 
amuse him,’ 

‘What about these secretaries?’ Trent inquired. ‘I met 
one called Marlowe just now outside; a nice-looking chap 
with singular eyes, unquestionably English. The other, it 
seems, is an American. What did Manderson want with 
an English secretary?’ 

“Mr. Marlowe explained to me how that was. The 
American was his right-hand business man, one of his 
office staff, who never left him. Mr. Marlowe had nothing 
to do with Manderson’s business as a financier, knew 
nothing of it. His job was to look after Manderson’s 
horses and motors and yacht and sporting arrangements 
and that—make himself generally useful, as you might 
say. He had the spending of a lot of money, I should 
think. The other was confined entirely to the office affairs, 
and I dare say he had his hands full. As for his being 
English, it was just a fad of Manderson’s to have an Eng- 
lish secretary. He’d had several before Mr. Marlowe.’ | 

“He showed his taste,’ observed Trent. “It might be more 
than interesting, don’t you think, to be minister to the © 
pleasures of a modern plutocrat with a large P. Only they 
say that Manderson’s were exclusively of an innocent 
kind. Certainly Marlowe gives me the impression that he 
would be weak in the part of Petronius. But to return to 
the matter in hand.’ He looked at his notes. “You said just 
now that he was last seen alive here, “so far.as the servants 
were concerned.” That meant——?’ 

“He had a conversation with his wife on going to bed: 
But for that, the man-servant, Martin by name, last saw 
him in this room. I had his story last night, and very glad 
he was to tell it. An affair like this is meat and drink to 
the servants of the house.’ 


50 


HANDCUFFS IN THE AIR 


Trent considered for some moments, gazing through 
the open window over the sun-flooded slopes. “Would it 
bore you to hear what he has to say again?’ he asked at 
length. For reply, Mr. Murch rang the bell. A spare, clean- 
shaven, middle-aged man, having the servant’s manner in 
its most distinguished form, answered it. 

“This is Mr. bie: who is authorized by Mrs. Mander- 
son to go over the house and make inquiries,’ explained 
the detective. ‘He would like to hear your story.’ Martin 
bowed distantly. He recognized Trent for a gentleman. 
Time would show whether he was what Martin called a 
gentleman in every sense of the word. 

‘I observed you approaching the house, sir,’ said Martin 
with impassive courtesy. He spoke with a slow and meas- 
ured utterance. “My instructions are to assist you in every 
possible way. Should you wish me to recall the circum- 
stances of Sunday night?’ 

‘Please,’ said Trent with ponderous gravity. Martin’s 
style was making clamorous appeal to his sense of com- 
edy. He banished with an effort all vivacity of expression 
from his face. 

‘T last saw Mr. Manderson—— 

“No, not that yet, Trent checked him quietly. “Tell me 
all you saw of him that evening—after dinner, say. Try 
to recollect every little detail.’ 

‘After dinner, sir?—yes. I remember that after dinner 
Mr. Manderson and Mr. Marlowe walked up and down 
the path through the orchard, talking. If you ask me for 
details, it struck me they were talking about something 
important, because I heard Mr. Manderson say something 
when they came in through the back entrance. He said, 
as near as I can remember, “If Harris is there, every min- 
ute is of importance. You want to start right away. And 
not a word to a soul.” Mr. Marlowe answered, “Very well. 


51 


TRENT’ S LAST CASE 


I will just change out of these clothes and then I am 
ready’—or words to that effect. I heard this plainly as 
they passed the window of my pantry. Then Mr. Mar- 
lowe went up to his bedroom, and Mr. Manderson entered 
the library and rang for me. He handed me some letters 
for the postman in the morning and directed me to sit 
up, as Mr. Marlowe had persuaded him to go for a drive 
in the car by moonlight’ | 

‘That was curious, remarked Trent. 

‘I thought so, sir. But I recollected what I had heard 
about “not a word to a soul,” and I concluded that this 
about a moonlight drive was intended to mislead,’ 

“What time was this?’ 

‘It would be about ten, sir, I should say. After speaking 
to me, Mr. Manderson waited until Mr. Marlowe had 
come down and brought round the car. He then went 
into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Manderson was.’ 

‘Did that strike you as curious?’ 

Martin looked down his nose. ‘If you ask me the ques- 
tion, sir,’ he said with reserve, ‘I had not known him enter 
that room since we came here this year. He preferred to 
sit in the library in the evenings. That evening he only 
remained with Mrs. Manderson for a few minutes. Then 
he and Mr. Marlowe started immediately.’ 

“You saw them start?’ 

‘Yes, sir. They took the direction of Bishopsbridge.’ 

‘And you saw Mr. Manderson again later?’ 

“After an hour or thereabouts, sir, in the library. That 
would have been about a quarter past eleven, I should say; 
I had noticed eleven striking from the church. I may say 
I am peculiarly quick of hearing, sir.’ 

‘Mr. Manderson had rung the bell for you, I suppose. 
Yes? And what passed when you answered it?’ 

“Mr. Manderson had put out the decanter of whisky and 


52 


HANDCUFFS IN THE AIR 


a syphon and glass, sir, from the cupboard where he kept 
them——’ 

Trent help up his hand. ‘While we are on that point, 
Martin, I want to ask you plainly, did Mr. Manderson 
drink very much? You understand this is not imperti- 
nent curiosity on my part. I want you to tell me, because 
it may possibly help in the clearing up of this case.’ 

‘Perfectly, sir, replied Martin gravely. ‘I have no hesi- 
tation in telling you what I have already told the inspec- 
tor. Mr. Manderson was, considering his position in life, 
a remarkably abstemious man. In my four years of service 
with him I never knew anything of an alcoholic nature 
pass his lips, except a glass or two of wine at dinner, very 
rarely a little at luncheon, and from time to time a whis- 
ky and soda before going to bed. He never seemed to 
form an habit of it. Often I used to find his glass in the 
morning with only a little soda water in it; sometimes he 
would have been having whisky with it, but never much. 
He never was particular about his drinks; ordinary soda 
was what he preferred, though I had ventured to suggest 
some of the natural minerals, having personally acquired 
a taste for them in my previous service. He used to keep 
them in the cupboard here, because he had a great dislike 
of being waited on more than was necessary. It was an 
understood thing that I never came near him after dinner 
unless sent for. And when he sent for anything, he liked 
it brought quick, and to be left alone again at once. He 
hated to be asked if he required anything more. Amaz- 
ingly simple in his tastes, sir, Mr. Manderson was.’ 

“Very well; and he rang for you that night about a quar- 
ter past eleven. Now can you remember exactly what he 
said?’ 

‘T think I can tell you with some approach to accuracy, 
sir. It was not much. First he asked me if Mr. Bunner had 


53 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


gone to bed, and I replied that he had been gone up 
some time. He then said that he wanted some one to sit 
up until 12.30, in case an important message should come 
by telephone, and that Mr. Marlowe having gone to 
Southampton for him in the motor, he wished me to do 
this, and that I was to take down the message if it came, 
and not disturb him. He also ordered a fresh syphon of 
soda water. I believe that was all, sir.’ 

‘You noticed nothing unusual about him, I suppose?’ 

‘No, sir, nothing unusual. When I answered the ring, 
he was seated at the desk listening at the telephone, wait- 
ing for a number, as I supposed. He gave his orders and 
went on listening at the same time. When I returned with 
the syphon he was engaged in conversation over the wire.’ 

“Do you remember anything of what he was saying?’ 

‘Very little, sir; it was something about somebody being 
at some hotel—of no interest to me. I was only in the room 
just time enough to place the syphon on the table and 
withdraw. As I closed the door he was saying, “You’re 
sure he isn’t in the hotel?” or words to that effect.’ 

‘And that was the last you saw and heard of him alive?’ 

“No, sir. A little later, at half-past eleven, when I had 
settled down in my pantry with the door ajar, and a book 
to pass the time, I heard Mr. Manderson go upstairs to 
bed. I immediately went to close the library window, and 
slipped the lock of the front door. I did not hear anything 
more.’ 

Trent considered. ‘I suppose you didn’t doze at all, he 
said tentatively, ‘while you were sitting up waiting for the 
telephone message?’ 

‘Oh, no, sir. I am always very wakeful about that time. 

I'm a bad sleeper, especially in the neighbourhood of the 
sea, and I generally read in bed until somewhere about 
midnight.’ 


54 


HANDCUFFS IN THE AIR 


‘And did any message come?’ 

“No, sir.’ 

‘No. And I suppose you sleep with your window open, 
these warm nights?’ 

‘It is never closed at night, sir.’ 

Trent added a last note; then he looked thoughtfully 
through those he had taken. He rose and paced up and 
down the room for some moments with a downcast eye. 
At length he paused opposite Martin. ‘It all seems per- 
fectly ordinary and simple,’ he said. ‘I just want to get a 
few details clear. You went to shut the windows in the 
library before going to bed. Which windows?’ 

“The French window, sir. It had been open all day. The 
windows opposite the door were seldom opened.’ 

“And what about the curtains? I am wondering whether 
anyone outside the house could have seen into the room.’ 

‘Easily, sir, I should say, if he had got into the grounds 
on that side. The curtains were never drawn in hot 
weather. Mr. Manderson would often sit right in the 
doorway at nights, smoking and looking out into the 
darkness. But nobody could have seen him who had any 
business to be there.’ 

‘I see. And now tell me this. Your hearing is very acute, 
you say, and you heard Mr. Manderson enter the house 
when he came in after dinner from the garden. Did you 
hear him re-enter it after returning from the motor drive?’ 

Martin paused. “Now you mention it, sir, I remember 
that I did not. His ringing the bell in this room was the 
- first I knew of his being back. I should have heard him 
come in, if he had come in by the front. I should have 
heard the door go. But he must have come in by the win- 
dow. The man reflected for a moment, then added, ‘As 
a general rule, Mr. Manderson would come in by the 
front, hang up his hat and coat in the hall, and pass down 


55 


TRENT, S LAST CASE 


the hall into the study. It seems likely to me that he was 
in a great hurry to use the telephone, so went straight 
across the lawn to the window—he was like that, when 
there was anything important to be done. He had his hat 
on, now I remember, and had thrown his great-coat over 
the end of the table. He gave his order very sharp, too, as 
he always did when busy. A very precipitate man indeed 
was Mr. Manderson; a hustler, as they say.’ 

‘Ah! he appeared to be busy. But didn’t you say just 
now that you noticed nothing unusual about him?’ 

A melancholy smile flitted momentarily over Martin’s 
face. “That observation shows that you did not know Mr. 
Manderson, sir, if you will pardon my saying so. His be- 
ing like that was nothing unusual; quite the contrary. It 
took me long enough to get used to it. Either he would 
be sitting quite still and smoking a cigar, thinking or 
reading, or else he would be writing, dictating, and send- 
ing off wires all at the same time, till it almost made one 
dizzy to see it, sometimes for an hour or more at a stretch. 
As for being in a hurry over a telephone message, I may 
say it wasn’t in him to be anything else.’ 

Trent turned to the inspector, who met his eye with a 
look of answering intelligence. Not sorry to show his un- 
derstanding of the line of inquiry opened by Trent, Mr. 
Murch for the first time put a question. 

“Then you left him telephoning by the open window, 
with the lights on, and the drinks on the table; is that it?’ 

“That is so, Mr. Murch.’ The delicacy of the change in 
Martin’s manner when called upon to answer the detec- 
tive momentarily distracted Trent’s appreciative mind. 
But the big man’s next question brought it back to the 
problem at once. 

‘About those drinks. You say Mr. Manderson often 


56 


HANDCUFFS IN THE AIR 


took no whisky before going to bed. Did he have any that 
night?’ 

‘I could not say. The room was put to rights in the 
morning by one of the maids, and the glass washed, I pre- 
sume, as usual. I know that the decanter was nearly full 
that evening. I had refilled it a few days before, and I 
glanced at it when I brought the fresh syphon, just out of 
habit, to make sure there was a decent-looking amount.’ 

The inspector went to the tall corner-cupboard and 
opened it. He took out a decanter of cut glass and set it 
on the table before Martin. ‘Was it fuller than that?’ he 
asked quietly. “That’s how I found it this morning.’ The 
decanter was more than half empty. 

For the first time Martin’s self-possession wavered. He 
took up the decanter quickly, tilted it before his eyes, and 
then stared amazedly at the others. He said slowly: 
“There’s not much short of half-a-bottle gone out of this 
since I last set eyes on it—and that was that Sunday night.’ 

‘Nobody in the house, I suppose?’ suggested Trent dis- 
creetly. 

‘Out of the question!’ replied Martin briefly; then he 
added, ‘I beg pardon, sir, but this is a most extraordinary 
thing to me. Such a thing never happened in all my ex- 
perience of Mr. Manderson. As for the women-servants, 
they never touch anything, I can answer for it; and as for 
me, when I want a drink I can help myself without going 
to the decanters.’ He took up the decanter again and aim- 
lessly renewed his observation of the contents, while the 
inspector eyed him with a look of serene satisfaction, as 
a master contemplates his handiwork. 

Trent turned to a fresh page of his notebook, and tap- 
ped it thoughtfully with his pencil. Then he looked up 
and said, ‘I suppose Mr. Manderson had dressed for din- 
ner that night?’ 


57 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


‘Certainly, sir. He had on a suit with a dress-jacket, 
what he used to refer to as a Tuxedo, which he usually 
wore when dining at home.’ 

‘And he was dressed like that when you saw him last?’ 

‘All but the jacket, sir. When he spent the evening in the 
library, as usually happened, he would change it for an 
old shooting-jacket after dinner, a light-coloured tweed, 
a little too loud in pattern for English tastes, perhaps. He 
had it on when I saw him last. It used to hang in this cup- 
board here’—Martin opened the door of it as he spoke— 
‘along with Mr. Manderson’s fishing-rods and such things, 
so that he could slip it on after dinner without going up- 
stairs.’ 

‘Leaving the dinner-jacket in the cupboard?’ 

‘Yes, sir. The housemaid used to take it upstairs in the 
morning.’ 

‘In the morning,’ Trent repeated slowly. ‘And now that 
we are speaking of the morning, will you tell me exactly 
what you know about that? I understand that Mr. Man- 
derson was not missed until the body was found about ten 
o'clock.’ 

“That is so, sir. Mr. Manderson would never be called, 
or have anything brought to him in the morning. He oc- 
cupied a separate bedroom. Usually he would get up about 
eight and go round to the bathroom, and he would come’ 
down some time before nine. But often he would sleep 
till nine or ten o’clock. Mrs. Manderson was always called 
at seven. The maid would take in tea to her. Yesterday 
morning Mrs. Manderson took breakfast about eight in 
her sitting-room as usual, and everyone supposed that 
Mr. Manderson was still in bed and asleep, when Evans 
came rushing up to the house with the shocking intelli- 
gence.’ 

‘I see, said Trent. ‘And now another thing. You say 


58 


HANDCUFFS IN THE AIR 


you slipped the lock of the front door before going to bed. 
Was that all the locking-up you did?’ 

‘To the front door, sir, yes; I slipped the lock. No more 
is considered necessary in these parts. But I had locked 
both the doors at the back, and seen to the fastenings of 
all the windows on the ground floor. In the morning ev- 
erything was as I had left it’ 

‘As you had left it. Now here is another point—the last, 
J think. Were the clothes in which the body was found 
the clothes that Mr. Manderson would naturally have 
worn that day?’ 

Martin rubbed his chin. “You remind me how surprised 
I was when I first set eyes on the body, sir. At first I 
couldn’t make out what was unusual about the clothes, 
and then I saw what it was. The collar was a shape of 
collar Mr. Manderson never wore except with evening 
dress. Then I found that he had put on all the same things 
that he had worn the night before—large fronted shirt 
and all—except just the coat and waistcoat and trousers, 
and the brown shoes, and blue tie. As for the suit, it was 
one of half-a-dozen he might have worn. But for him to 
have simply put on all the rest just because they were 
there, instead of getting out the kind of shirt and things 
he always wore by day; well, sir, it was unprecedented. It 
shows, like some other things, what a hurry he must have 
been in when getting up.’ 

‘Of course,’ said Trent. “Well, I think that’s all I wanted 
to know. You have put everything with admirable clear- 
ness, Martin. If we want to ask any more questions later 
on, I suppose you will be somewhere about.’ 

‘I shall be at your disposal, sir." Martin bowed, and went 
out quietly. 

Trent flung himself into the arm-chair and exhaled a 
long breath. ‘Martin is a great creature,’ he said. “He is 


59 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


far, far better than a play. There is none like him, none, 
nor will be when our summers have deceased. Straight, 
too; not an atom of harm in dear old Martin. Do you 
know, Murch, you are wrong in suspecting that man.’ 

‘I never said a word about suspecting him.’ The inspec- 
tor was taken aback. ‘You know, Mr. Trent, he would 
never have told his story like that if he thought I sus- 
pected him.’ 

‘I dare say he doesn’t think so. He is a wonderful crea- 
ture, a great artist; but, in spite of that, he is not at all a 
sensitive type. It has never occurred to his mind that you, 
Murch, could suspect him, Martin, the complete, the ac- 
complished. But I know it. You must understand, inspec- 
tor, that I have made a special study of the psychology 
of officers of the law. It is a grossly neglected branch of 
knowledge. They are far more interesting than criminals, 
and not nearly so easy. All the time I was questioning 
him I saw handcuffs in your eye. Your lips were mutely 
framing the syllables of those tremendous words: “It is 
my duty to tell you that anything you now say will be 
taken down and used in evidence against you.” Your 
manner would have deceived most men, but it could not 
deceive me.’ 

Mr. Murch laughed heartily. Trent’s nonsense peti 
made any sort of impression on his mind, but he took it 
as a mark of esteem, which indeed it was; so it never 
failed to please him. ‘Well, Mr. Trent,’ he said, ‘you’re 
perfectly right. There’s no point in denying it, I have got 
my eye on him. Not that there’s anything definite; but 
you know as well as I do how often servants are mixed up 
in affairs of this kind, and this man is such a very quiet 
- customer. You remember the case of Lord William Rus- 
sell’s valet, who went in as usual, in the morning, to draw 
up the blinds in his master’s bedroom, as quiet and starchy 


60 


HANDCUFFS IN THE AIR 


as you please, a few hours after he had murdered him in 
his bed. I’ve talked to all the women of the house, and I 
don’t believe there’s a morsel of harm in one of them. 
But Martin’s not so easy set aside. I don’t like his manner; 
I believe he’s hiding something. If so, I shall find it out.’ 

‘Cease!’ said Trent. “Drain not to its dregs the urn of bit- 
ter prophecy. Let us get back to facts. Have you, as a matter 
of evidence, anything at all to bring against Martin’s story 
as he has told it to us?’ 

‘Nothing whatever at present. As for his suggestion that 
Manderson came in by way of the window after leaving 
Marlowe and the car, that’s right enough, I should say. I 
questioned the servant who swept the room next morning, 
and she tells me there were gravelly marks near the win- 
dow, on this plain drugget that goes round the carpet. 
And there’s a footprint in this soft new gravel just out- 
side.’ The inspector took a folding rule from his pocket 
and with it pointed out the traces. “One of the patent shoes 
Manderson was wearing that night exactly fits that print; 
you'll find them,’ he added, ‘on the top shelf in the bed- 
room, near the window end, the only patents in the row. 
The girl who polished them in the morning picked them 
out for me.’ 

Trent bent down and studied the faint marks keenly. 
‘Good!’ he said. ‘You have covered a lot of ground, 
Murch, I must say. That was excellent about the whisky; 
you made your point finely. I feel inclined to shout “En- 

core!” It’s a thing that I shall have to think over.’ 

- ‘T thought you might have fitted it in already,’ said Mr. 
Murch. ‘Come, Mr. Trent, we’re only at the beginning of 
our inquiries, but what do you say to this for a prelimi- 
nary theory? There’s a plan of burglary, say a couple of 
men in it and Martin squared. They know where the 
plate is, and all about the handy little bits of stuff in the 


61 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


drawing-room and elsewhere. They watch the house; see 
Manderson off to bed; Martin comes to shut the win- 
dow, and leaves it ajar, accidentally on purpose. They 
wait till Martin goes to bed at twelve-thirty; then they 
just walk into the library, and begin to sample the whisky 
first thing. Now suppose Manderson isn’t asleep, and sup- 
pose they make a noise opening the window, or however 
it might be. He hears it; thinks of burglars; gets up very 
quietly to see if anything’s wrong; creeps down on them, 
perhaps, just as they’re getting ready for work. They cut 
and run; he chases them down to the shed, and collars 
one; there’s a fight; one of them loses his temper and his 
head, and makes a swinging job of it. Now, Mr. Trent, 
pick that to pieces.’ 

‘Very well, said Trent; ‘just to oblige you, Murch, es- 
pecially as I know you don’t believe a word of it. First: 
no traces of any kind left by your burglar or burglars, and 
the window found fastened in the morning, according to 
Martin. Not much force in that, I allow. Next: nobody 
in the house hears anything of this stampede through the 
library, nor hears any shout from Manderson either in- 
side the house or outside. Next: Manderson goes down 
without a word to anybody, though Bunner and Martin 
are at hand. Next: did you ever hear in your long experi- 
ence of a householder getting up in the night to pounce 
on burglars, who dressed himself fully, with undercloth- 
ing, shirt, collar and tie, trousers, waistcoat and coat, 
socks and hard leather shoes; and who gave the finishing 
touches to a somewhat dandified toilet by doing his hair, 
and putting on his watch and chain? Personally, I call 
that over-dressing the part. The only decorative detail he 
seems to have forgotten is his teeth.’ 

The inspector leaned forward thinking, his large hands 
clasped before him. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘Of course there’s 

62 | 


HANDCUFFS IN THE AIR 


no help in that theory. I rather expect we have some way 
to go before we find out why a man gets up before the 
servants are awake, dresses himself fully, and is murdered 
within sight of his house early enough to be cold and 
stiff by ten in the morning.’ 

Trent shook his head. ‘We can’t build anything on that 
last consideration. I’ve gone into the subject with people 
who know. I shouldn’t wonder,’ he added, ‘if the tradi- 
tional notions about loss of temperature and rigour after 
death had occasionally brought an innocent man to the 
gallows, or near it. Dr. Stock has them all, I feel sure; 
most general practitioners of the older generation have. 
That Dr. Stock will make an ass of himself at the inquest, 
is almost as certain as that to-morrow’s sun will rise. I’ve 
seen him. He will say the body must have been dead 
about so long, because of the degree of coldness and rigor 
mortis. I can see him nosing it all in some text book that 
was out of date when he was a student. Listen, Murch, 
and I will tell you some facts which will be a great hin- 
drance to you in your professional career. There are many 
things that may hasten or retard’ the cooling of the body. 
This one was lying in the long dewy grass on the shady 
side of the shed. As for rigidity, if Manderson died in a 
struggle, or labouring under sudden emotion, his corpse 
might stiffen practically instantaneously; there are dozens 
of cases noted, particularly in cases of injury to the skull, 
like this one. On the other hand, the stiffening might not 
have begun until eight or ten hours after death. You can’t 
hang anybody on rigor mortis nowadays, inspector, much 
as you may resent the limitation. No, what we can say is 
this. If he had been shot after the hour at which the world 
begins to get up and go about its business, it would have 
been heard, and very likely seen too. In fact, we must 
reason, to begin with, at any rate, on the assumption that 


63 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


he wasn’t shot at a time when people might be awake; it 
isn’t done in these parts. Put that time at 6.30 a.m. Man- 
derson went up to bed at 11 p.m., and Martin sat up till 
12.30. Assuming that he went to sleep at once on turning 
in, that leaves us something like six hours for the crime 
to be committed in; and that is a long time. But when- 
ever it took place, I wish you would suggest a reason why 
Manderson, who was a fairly late riser, was up and dressed 
at or before 6.30; and why neither Martin, who sleeps 
lightly, nor Bunner, nor his wife heard him moving 
about, or letting himself out of the house. He must have 
been careful. He must have crept about like a cat. Do you 
feel as I do, Murch, about all this; that it is very, very 
strange and baffling?’ 

“That’s how it looks,’ agreed the inspector. 

‘And now,’ said Trent, rising to his feet, ‘Pll leave you 
to your meditations, and take a look at the bedrooms. Per- 
haps the explanation of all this will suddenly burst upon 
you while I am poking about up there. But,’ concluded 
Trent in a voice of sudden exasperation, turning round 
in the doorway, ‘if you can tell me at any time, how un- 
der the sun a man who put on all those clothes could for- 
get to put in his teeth, you may kick me from here to the 
nearest lunatic asylum, and hand me over as an incipient 
dement.’ 


64 


Chapter V 


POKING ABOUT 


HERE are moments in life, as one might think, when 
T that which is within us, busy about its secret affair, 
lets escape into consciousness some hint of a fortunate 
thing ordained. Who does not know what it is to feel 
at times a wave of unaccountable persuasion that it is 
about to go well with him?’—not the feverish conf- 
dence of men in danger of a blow from fate, not the per- 
sistent illusion of the optimist, but an unsought con- 
viction, springing up like a bird from the heather, that 
success is at hand in some great or little thing. The gen- 
eral suddenly knows at dawn that the day will bring him 
victory; the man on the green suddenly knows that he 
will put down the long putt. As Trent mounted the stair- 
way outside the library door he seemed to rise into cer- 
tainty of achievement. 

A host of guesses and inferences swarmed apparently 
unsorted through his mind; a few secret observations that 
he had made, and which he felt must have significance, 
still stood unrelated to any plausible theory of the crime; 
yet as he went up he seemed to know indubitably that 
light was going to appear. 

The bedrooms lay on either side of a broad carpeted 
passage, lighted by a tall end window. It went the length 
of the house until it ran at right angles into a narrower 
passage, out of which the servants’ rooms opened. Mar- 
tin’s room was the exception: it opened out of a small 
landing halfway to the upper floor. As Trent passed it he 


65 


TRENT S LAST CASH 


glanced within. A little square room, clean and common- 
place. In going up the rest of the stairway he stepped with 
elaborate precaution against noise, hugging the wall close- 
ly and placing each foot with care; but a series of very 
audible creaks marked his passage. 

He knew that Manderson’s room was the first on the 
right hand when the bedroom floor was reached, and he 
went to it at once. He tried the latch and the lock, which 
worked normally, and examined the wards of the key. 
Then he turned to the room. 

It was a small apartment, strangely bare. The pluto- 
crat’s toilet appointments were of the simplest. All re- 
mained just as it had been on the morning of the ghastly 
discovery in the grounds. The sheets and blankets of the 
unmade bed lay tumbled over a narrow wooden bedstead, 
and the sun shone brightly through the window upon 
them. It gleamed, too, upon the gold parts of the delicate 
work of dentistry that lay in water in a shallow bowl of 
glass placed on a small, plain table by the bedside. On this 
also stood a wrought-iron candlestick. Some clothing lay 
untidily over one of the two rush-bottomed chairs. Vari- 
ous objects on the top of a chest of drawers, which had 
been used as a dressing-table, lay in such disorder as a 
hurried man might make. Trent looked them over with 
a questing eye. He noted also that the occupant of the 
room had neither washed nor shaved. With his finger 
he turned over the dental plate in the bowl, and frowned 
again at its incomprehensible presence. 

The emptiness and disarray of the little room, flooded 
by the sunbeams, were producing in Trent a sense of 
gruesomeness. His fancy called up a picture of a haggard 
man dressing himself in careful silence by the first light 
of dawn, glancing constantly at the inner door behind 
which his wife slept, his eyes full of some terror. 

66 


POKING ABOUT 


Trent shivered, and to fix his mind again on actualities 
opened two tall cupboards in the wall on either side of 
the bed. They contained clothing, a large choice of which 
had evidently been one of the very few conditions of com- 
fort for the man who had slept there. 

In the matter of shoes, also, Manderson had allowed 
himself the advantage of wealth. An extraordinary num- 
ber of these, treed and carefully kept, was ranged on two 
long low shelves against the wall. No boots were among 
them. Trent, himself an amateur of good shoe-leather, 
now turned to these, and glanced over the collection with 
an appreciative eye. It was to be seen that Manderson had 
been inclined to pride himself on a rather small and well- 
formed foot. The shoes were of a distinctive shape, nar- 
row and round-toed, beautifully made; all were evidently 
from the same last. 

Suddenly his eyes narrowed themselves over a pair of 
patent-leather shoes on the upper shelf. 

These were the shoes of which the inspector had al- 
ready described the position to him; the shoes worn by 
Manderson the night before his death. They were a well- 
worn pair, he saw at once; he saw, too, that they had been 
very recently polished. Something about the uppers of 
these shoes had seized his attention. He bent lower and 
frowned over them, comparing what he saw with the ap- 
pearance of the neighbouring shoes. Then he took them 
up and examined the line of junction of the uppers with 
the soles. 

As he did this, Trent began unconsciously to whistle 
faintly, and with great precision, an air which Inspector 
Murch, if he had been present, would have recognized. 

Most men who have the habit of self-control have also 
some involuntary trick which tells those who know them 
that they are suppressing excitement. The inspector had 


oom 


TRENT ’S LAST CASE 


noted that when Trent had picked up a strong scent he 
whistled faintly a certain melodious passage; though the 
inspector could not have told you that it was in fact the 
opening movement of Mendelssohn’s Lied ohne Worter 
in A Major. 

He turned the shoes over, made some measurements 
with a marked tape, and looked minutely at the bottoms. 
On each, in the angle between the heel and the instep, 
he detected a faint trace of red gravel. 

Trent placed the shoes on the floor, and walked with 
his hands behind him to the window, out of which, still 
faintly whistling, he gazed with eyes that saw nothing. 
Once his lips opened to emit mechanically the English- 
man’s expletive of sudden enlightenment. At length he 
turned to the shelves again, and swiftly but carefully ex- 
amined every one of the shoes there. 

This done, he took up the garments from the chair, 
looked them over closely and replaced them. He turned 
to the wardrobe cupboards again, and hunted through 
them carefully. The litter on the dressing-table now en- 
gaged his attention for the second time. Then he sat 
down on the empty chair, took his head in his hands, and 
remained in that attitude, staring at the carpet, for some 
minutes. He rose at last and opened the inner door lead- 
ing to Mrs. Manderson’s room. 

It was evident at a glance that the big room had been 
hurriedly put down from its place as the lady’s bower. 
All the array of objects that belong to a woman’s dressing- 
table had been removed; on bed and chairs and smaller 
tables there were no garments or hats, bags or boxes; no 
trace remained of the obstinate conspiracy of gloves and 
veils, handkerchiefs and ribbons, to break the captivity of 
the drawer. The room was like an unoccupied guest- 
chamber. Yet in every detail of furniture and decoration 

68 


POKING ABOUT 


it spoke of an unconventional but exacting taste. Trent, 
as his expert eye noted the various perfection of colour 
and form amid which the ill-mated lady dreamed her 
dreams and thought her loneliest thoughts, knew that 
she had at least the resources of an artistic nature. His 
interest in this unknown personality grew stronger; and 
his brows came down heavily as he thought of the bur- 
dens laid upon it, and of the deed of which the history 
was now shaping itself with more and more of substance 
before his busy mind. 

He went first to the tail French window in the middle 
of the wall that faced the door, and opening it, stepped 
out upon a small balcony with an iron railing. He looked 
down on a broad stretch of lawn that began immediately 
beneath him, separated from the house-wall only by a 
narrow flower-bed, and stretched away, with an abrupt 
dip at the farther end, toward the orchard. The other 
window opened with a sash above the garden-entrance 
of the library. In the farther inside corner of the room was 
a second door giving upon the passage; the door by 
which the maid was wont to come in, and her mistress 
to go out, in the morning. 

Trent, seated on the bed, quickly sketched in his note- 
book a plan of the room and its neighbour. The bed stood 
in the angle between the communicating-door and the 
sash-window, its head against the wall dividing the room 
from Manderson’s. Trent stared at the pillows; then he 
lay down with deliberation on the bed and looked 
_ through the open door into the adjoining room. 

This observation taken, he rose again and proceeded 
to note on his plan that on either side of the bed was a 
small table with a cover. Upon that farthest from the 
door was a graceful electric-lamp standard of copper con- 
nected by a free wire with the wall. Trent looked at it 


69 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


thoughtfully, then at the switches connected with the 
other lights in the room. They were, as usual, on the wall 
just within the door, and some way out of his reach as he 
sat on the bed. He rose, and satisfied himself that the 
lights were all in order. Then he turned on his heel, 
walked quickly into Manderson’s room, and rang the 
bell. 

‘I want your help again, Martin,’ he said, as the butler 
presented himself, upright and impassive, in the doorway. 
‘I want you to prevail upon Mrs. Manderson’s maid to 
grant me an interview.’ 

‘Certainly, sir,’ said Martin. 

‘What sort of a woman is she? Has she her wits soe 
her ?’ 

‘She’s French, sir,’ replied Martin succinctly ; sddine af- 
ter a pause: ‘She has not been with us long, sir, but I have 
formed the impression that the young woman knows as 
much of the world as is good for her—since you ask me.’ 

‘You think butter might possibly melt in her mouth, do 
you?’ said Trent. ‘Well, I am not afraid. I want to put 
some questions to her.’ 

‘I will send her up immediately, sir.’ The butler with- 
drew, and Trent wandered round the little room with his 
hands at his back. Sooner than he had expected, a small 
neat figure in black appeared quietly before him. 

The lady’s maid, with her large brown eyes, had taken 
favourable notice of Trent from a window when he had 
crossed the lawn, and had been hoping desperately that 
the resolver of mysteries (whose reputation was as great 
below-stairs as elsewhere) would send for her. For one 
thing, she felt the need to make a scene; her. nerves were 
overwrought. But her scenes were at a discount with the 
other domestics, and as for Mr. Murch, he had chilled 
her into self-control with his official manner. Trent, her 


70 


POKING ABOUT 


glimpse of him had told her, had not the air of a police- 
man, and at a distance he had appeared sympathique. 

As she entered the room, however, instinct decided for 
her that any approach to coquetry would be a mistake, 
if she sought to make a good impression at the beginning. 
It was with an air of amiable candour, then, that she said, 
‘Monsieur desire to speak with me.’ She added helpfully, 
‘TT am called Célestine.’ 

‘Naturally,’ agreed Trent with businesslike calm. ‘Now 
what I want you to tell me, Célestine, is this. When you 
took tea to your mistress yesterday morning at seven 
o’clock, was the door between the two bedrooms—this 
door here—open?’ _ 

Célestine became intensely animated in an instant. ‘Oh, 
yes!’ she said, using her favourite English idiom. “The 
door was open as always, monsieur, and I shut it as al- 
ways. But it is necessary to explain. Listen! When I enter 
the room of madame from the other door in there—ah! 
but if monsieur will give himself the pain to enter the 
other room, all explains itself.’ She tripped across to the 
door, and urged Trent before her into the larger bedroom 
with a hand on his arm. ‘See! I enter the room with the 
tea like this. I approach the bed. Before I come quite 
near the bed, here is the door to my right hand—open 
always—so! But monsieur can perceive that I see nothing 
in the room of Monsieur Manderson. The door opens to 
the bed, not to me who approach from down there. I shut 
it without seeing in. It is the order. Yesterday it was as 
ordinary. I see nothing of the next room. Madame sleep 
like an angel—she see nothing. I shut the door. I place 
the plateau—I open the curtains—I prepare the toilette— 
I retire—voila!’ Célestine paused for breath and spread 
her hands abroad. 


Trent, who had followed her movements and gesticu- 


71 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


lations with deepening gravity, nodded his head. ‘T see 
exactly how it was now,’ he said. “Thank you, Célestine. 
So Mr. Manderson was supposed to be still in his room 
while your mistress was getting up, and dressing, and hav- 
ing breakfast in her boudoir?’ 

‘Oui, monsieur.’ 

‘Nobody missed him, in fact, remarked Trent. “Well, 
Célestine, I am very much obliged to you.’ He reopened 
the door to the outer bedroom. 

‘It is nothing, monsieur,’ said Célestine, as she crossed 
the small room. ‘I hope that monsieur will catch the as- 
sassin of Monsieur Manderson. But I not regret him too 
much, she added with sudden and amazing violence, 
turning round with her hand on the knob of the outer 
door. She set her teeth with an audible sound, and the 
colour rose in her small dark face. English departed from 
her. ‘Je ne le regrette pas du tout, du tout!’ she cried with 
a flood of words. ‘Madame—ah! je me jetterais au feu 
pour madame—une femme si charmante, si adorable! 
mais un homme comme monsieur—maussade, boudeur, 
impassible! Ah, non!—de ma vie! J’en avais par-dessus la 
téte, de monsieur! Ah! vrai! Est-ce insupportable, tout de 
méme, qu'il existe des types comme ¢a? Je vous jure 
que—— Sa 

‘Finissez ce chahut, Célestine!’ Trent broke in sharply. 
Célestine’s tirade had brought back the memory of his 
student days with a rush. “En voila une scéne! C’est rasant, 
vous savez. Faut rentrer ca, mademoiselle. Du reste, c’est 
bien imprudent, croyez-moi. Hang it! have some com- 
mon sense! If the inspector downstairs heard you saying 
that kind of thing, you would get into trouble. And don’t 
wave your fists about so much; you might hit something. 
You seem,’ he went on more pleasantly, as Célestine grew 
calmer under his authoritative eye, ‘to be even more glad 


72 


POKING ABOUT 


than other people that Mr. Manderson is out of the way. 
I could almost suspect, Célestine, that Mr. Manderson did 
not take as much notice of you as you thought necessary 
and right.’ 

‘A peine s'il m’avait regardé!’ Célestine answered sim- 
ply. 

‘Ca, c’est un comble!’ observed Trent. “You are a nice 
young woman for a small tea-party, I don’t think. A star 
upon your birthday burned, whose fierce, serene, red, 
pulseless planet never yearned in heaven, Célestine. Ma- 
demoiselle, I am busy. Bon jour. You certainly are a 
beauty!’ 

Célestine took this as a scarcely-expected compliment. 
The surprise restored her balance. With a sudden flash of 
her eyes and teeth at Trent over her shoulder, the lady’s 
maid opened the door and swiftly disappeared. 

Trent, left alone in the little bedroom, relieved his mind 
with two forcible descriptive terms in Célestine’s lan- 
guage, and turned to his problem. He took the pair of 
shoes which he had already examined, and placed them 
on one of the two chairs in the room, then seated himself 
on the other opposite to this. With his hands in his pock- 
ets he sat with eyes fixed upon those two dumb witnesses. 
Now and then he whistled, almost inaudibly, a few bars. 
It was very still in the room. A subdued twittering came 
from the trees through the open window. From time to 
time a breeze rustled in the leaves of the thick creeper 
about the sill. But the man in the room, his face grown 
_ hard and sombre now with his thoughts, never moved. 

So he sat for the space of half-an-hour. Then he rose 
quickly to his feet. He replaced the shoes on their shelf 
with care, and stepped out upon the landing. 

Two bedroom doors faced him on the other side of the 
passage. He opened that which was immediately opposite, 


73 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


and entered a bedroom by no means austerely tidy. Some 
sticks and fishing-rods stood confusedly in one corner, a 
pile of books in another. The housemaid’s hand had failed 
to give a look of order to the jumble of heterogeneous 
objects left on the dressing-table and on the mantel-shelf 
—pipes, penknives, pencils, keys, golf-balls, old letters, 
photographs, small boxes, tins, and bottles. Two fine etch- ’ 
ings and some water-colour sketches hung on the walls; 
leaning against the end of the wardrobe, unhung, were a 
few framed engravings. A row of shoes and boots was 
ranged beneath the window. Trent crossed the room and 
studied them intently; then he measured some of them. 
with his tape, whistling very softly. This done, he sat on 
the side of the bed, and his eyes roamed gloomily about 
the room. 

The photographs on the mantel-shelf attracted him 
presently. He rose and examined one representing Mar- 
lowe and Manderson on horseback. Two others were 
views of famous peaks in the Alps. There was a faded 
print of three youths—one of them unmistakably his ac- 
quaintance of the haggard blue eyes—clothed in tatter- 
demalion soldier’s gear of the sixteenth century. Another 
was a portrait of a majestic old lady, slightly resembling 
Marlowe. Trent, mechanically taking a cigarette from an 
open box on the mantel-shelf, lit it and stared at the pho- 
tographs. Next he turned his attention to a flat leathern 
case that lay by the cigarette-box. 

It opened easily. A cna and light revolver, of beautiful 
workmanship, was disclosed, with a score or so of loose 
cartridges. On the stock were engraved the initials ‘J. M.’ 

A step was heard on the stairs, and as Trent opened the 
breech and peered into the barrel of the weapon, Inspector 
Murch appeared at the open door of the room. ‘I was 
wondering——’ he began; then stopped as he saw what 


74 


POKING ABOUT 


the other was about. His intelligent eyes opened slightly. 
‘Whose is the revolver, Mr. Trent?’ he asked in a conver- 
sational tone. 

‘Evidently it belongs to the occupant of the room, Mr. 
Marlowe, replied Trent with similar lightness, pointing 
to the initials. ‘I found this lying about on the mantel- 
piece. It seems a handy little pistol to me, and it has been 
very carefully cleaned, I should say, since the last time it 
was used. But I know little about firearms.’ 

‘Well, I know a good deal,’ rejoined the inspector qui- 
etly, taking the revolver from Trent’s outstretched hand. 
‘It’s a bit of a specialty with me, is firearms, as I think you 
know, Mr. Trent. But it don’t require an expert to tell one 
thing.’ He replaced the revolver in its case on the mantel- 
shelf, took out one of the cartridges, and laid it on the 
spacious palm of one hand; then, taking a small object 
from his waistcoat pocket, he laid it beside the cartridge. 
It was a little leaden bullet, slightly battered about the nose, 
and having upon it some bright new scratches. 

‘Is that the one?’ Trent murmured as he bent over the 
inspector’s hand. 

‘That’s him,’ replied Mr. Murch. ‘Lodged in the bone 
at the back of the skull. Dr. Stock got it out within the 
last hour, and handed it to the local officer, who has just 
sent it on to me. These bright scratches you see were made 
by the doctor’s instruments. These other marks were made 
by the rifling of the barrel-a barrel like this one.’ He tap- 
ped the revolver. ‘Same make, same calibre. There is no 
other that marks the bullet just like this.’ 

With the pistol in its case between them, Trent and the 
inspector looked into each other’s eyes for some moments. 
Trent was the first to speak. “This mystery is all wrong,’ 
he observed. ‘It is insanity. The symptoms of mania are 
very marked. Let us see how we stand. We were not in 


7) 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


any doubt, I believe, about Manderson having dispatched 
Marlowe in the car to Southampton, or about Marlowe 
having gone, returning late last night, many hours after 
the murder was committed.’ 

“There zs no doubt whatever about all that,’ said Murch, 
with a slight emphasis on the verb. 

‘And now,’ pursued Trent, ‘we are invited by this pol- 
ished and insinuating firearm to believe the following 
line of propositions: that Marlowe never went to South- 
ampton; that he returned to the house in the night; that 
he somehow, without waking Mrs. Manderson or any- 
body else, got Manderson to get up, dress himself, and go 
out into the grounds; that he then and there shot the said 
Manderson with his incriminating pistol ; that he carefully 
cleaned the said pistol, returned to the house and, again 
without disturbing anyone, replaced it in its case in a fa- 
vourable position to be found by the officers of the law; 
that he then withdrew and spent the rest of the day in 
hiding—with a large motor car; and that he turned up, 
feigning ignorance of the whole affair, at—what time was 
it?” 

‘A little after 9 p.m.’ The inspector still stared moodily 
at Trent. “As you say, Mr. Trent, that is the first theory 
suggested by this find, and it seems wild enough—at least 
it would do if it didn’t fall to pieces at the very start. 
When the murder was done Marlowe must have been 
fifty toa hundred miles away. He did go to Southampton.’ 

“How do you know?’ | 

‘I questioned him last night; and took down his story. 
He arrived in Southampton about 6.30 on the Monday 
morning.’ 

‘Come off!’ exclaimed Trent bitterly. “What do I care 
about his story? What do you care about his story? I want 
to know how you know he went to Southampton.’ 


76 


POKING ABOUT 


Mr. Murch chuckled. ‘I thought I should take a rise out 
of you, Mr. Trent,’ he said. “Well, there’s no harm in tell- 
ing you. After I arrived yesterday evening, as soon as I 
had got the outlines of the story from Mrs. Manderson 
and the servants, the first thing I did was to go to the 
telegraph office and wire to our people in Southampton. 
Manderson had told his wife when he went to bed that 
he had changed his mind, and sent Marlowe to South- 
ampton to get some important information from someone 
who was crossing by the next day’s boat. It seemed right 
enough, but, you see, Marlowe was the only one of the 
household who wasn’t under my hand, so to speak. He 
didn’t return in the car until later in the evening; so be- 
fore thinking the matter out any further, I wired to 
Southampton making certain inquiries. Early this morn- 
ing I got this reply.’ He handed a series of telegraph slips 
to Trent, who read: 


‘Person answering description in motor answering descrip- 
tion arrived Bedford Hotel here 6.30 this morning gave name 
Marlowe left car hotel garage told attendant car belonged 
Manderson had bath and breakfast went out heard of later 
at docks inquiring for passenger name Harris on Havre boat 
inquired repeatedly until boat left at noon next heard of at 
hotel where he lunched about 1.15 left soon afterwards in car 
company’s agents inform berth was booked name Harris last 
week but Harris did not travel by boat Burke inspector.’ 


‘Simple and satisfactory, observed Mr. Murch as Trent, 
after twice reading the message, returned it to him. ‘His 
own story corroborated in every particular. He told me 
he hung about the dock for half-an-hour or so on the 
chance of Harris turning up late, then strolled back, 
lunched, and decided to return at once. He sent a wire to 
Manderson—“Harris not turned up missed boat returning 


77 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


Marlowe,” which was duly delivered here in the after- 
noon, and placed among the dead man’s letters. He mo- 
tored back at a good rate, and arrived dog-tired. When he 
heard of Manderson’s death from Martin, he nearly faint- 
ed. What with that and the being without sleep for so 
long, he was rather a wreck when I came to interview 
him last night; but he was perfectly coherent.’ 

Trent picked up the revolver and twirled the cylinder 
idly for a few moments. ‘It was unlucky for Manderson 
that Marlowe left his pistol and cartridges about so care- 
lessly,’ he remarked at length, as he put it back in the 
case. ‘It was throwing temptation in somebody’s way, 
don’t you think?’ 

Mr. Murch shook his head. “There isn’t really much to 
lay hold of about the revolver, when you come to think. 
That particular make of revolver is common enough in 
England. It was introduced from the States. Half the peo- 
ple who buy a revolver to-day for self-defence or mischief 
provide themselves with that make, of that calibre. It is 
very reliable, and easily carried in the hip-pocket. There 
must be thousands of them in the possession of crooks 
and honest men. For instance,’ continued the inspector 
with an air of unconcern, ‘Manderson himself had one, 
the double of this. I found it in one of the top drawers of 
the desk: downstairs, and it’s in my overcoat pocket now.’ 

‘Aha! so you were going to keep that little detail to 
yourself.’ 

‘I was,’ said the inspector; “but as you’ve found one re- 
volver, you may as well know about the other. As I say, 
neither of them may do us any good. The people in the 
house——’ , | 

Both men started, and the inspector checked his speech 
abruptly, as the half-closed door of the bedroom was slow- 
ly pushed open, and a man stood in the doorway. His 


8 


POKING ABOUT 


eyes turned from the pistol in its open case to the faces 

of Trent and the inspector. They, who had not heard a 

sound to herald this entrance, simultaneously looked at 

his long, narrow feet. He wore rubber-soled tennis shoes. 
“You must be Mr. Bunner,’ said Trent. 


79 


Chapter VI 


MR. BUNNER ON THE CASE 


(Gis C. BuNNER, at your service, amended the new- 
comer, with a touch of punctilio, as he removed an 
unlighted cigar from his mouth. He was used to finding 
Englishmen slow and ceremonious with strangers, and 
Trent’s quick remark plainly disconcerted him a little. 
“You are Mr. Trent, I expect,’ he went on. ‘Mrs. Mander- 
son was telling me a while ago. Captain, good-morning.’ 
Mr. Murch acknowledged the outlandish greeting with a 
nod. ‘I was coming up to my room, and I heard a strange 
voice in here, so I thought I would take a look in.’ Mr. 
Bunner laughed easily. “You thought I might have been 
eavesdropping, perhaps,’ he said. “No, sir; I heard a word 
or two about a pistol—this one, I guess—and that’s all.’ 
Mr. Bunner was a thin, rather short young man with a 
shaven, pale, bony, almost girlish face, and large, dark, 
intelligent eyes. His waving dark hair was parted in the 
middle. His lips, usually occupied with a cigar, in its ab- 
sence were always half open with a curious expression as 
of permanent eagerness. By smoking or chewing a cigar 
this expression was banished, and Mr. Bunner then looked 
the consummately cool and sagacious Yankee that he was. 
Born in Connecticut, he had gone into a broker’s office 
on leaving college, and had attracted the notice of Man- 
derson, whose business with his firm he had often han- 
dled. The Colossus had watched him for some time, and 
at length offered him the post of private secretary. Mr. 
Bunner was a pattern business man, trustworthy, long- 
SO | | 


MR. BUNNER ON THE CASE 


headed, methodical, and accurate. Manderson could have 
found many men with those virtues; but he engaged Mr. 
Bunner because he was also swift and secret, and had be- 
sides a singular natural instinct in regard to the move- 
ments of the stock market. 

Trent and the American measured one another coolly 
with their eyes. Both appeared satisfied with what they 
saw. ‘I was having it explained to me,’ said Trent pleas- 
antly, ‘that my discovery of a pistol that might have shot 
Manderson does not amount to very much. I am told it 
is a favourite weapon among your people, and has become 
quite popular over here.’ 

Mr. Bunner stretched out a bony hand and took the pis- 
tol from its case. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, handling it with an air 
of familiarity; ‘the captain is right. This is what we call 
out home a Little Arthur, and I dare say there are dupli- 
cates of it in ten thousand hip-pockets this minute. I con- 
sider it rather too light in the hand myself, Mr. Bunner 
went on, mechanically feeling under the tail of his jacket, 
and producing an ugly-looking weapon. ‘Feel of that, 
now, Mr. Trent—it’s loaded, by the way. Now this Little 
Arthur—Marlowe bought it just before we came over this 
year to please the old man. Manderson said it was ridicu- 
lous for a man to be without a pistol in the twentieth cen- 
tury. So he went out and bought what they offered him, 
I guess—never consulted me. Not but what it’s a good 
gun, Mr. Bunner conceded, squinting along the sights. 
‘Marlowe was poor with it at first, but I’ve coached him 
some in the last month or so, and he’s practised until he is 
pretty good. But he never could get the habit of carrying 
it around. Why, it’s as natural to me as wearing my pants. 
I have packed one for some years now, because there was 
always likely to be somebody laying for Manderson. And 
now, Mr. Bunner concluded sadly, ‘they got him when I 


81 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


wasn’t around. Well, gentlemen, you must excuse me. I 
am going into Bishopsbridge. There is a lot to do these 
days, and I have to send off a bunch of cables big enough 
to choke a cow.’ 

‘I must be off too,’ said Trent. ‘I have an appointment at 
the “Three Tuns” inn.’ 

‘Let me give you a lift in the automobile,’ said Mr. Bun- 
ner cordially. ‘I go right by that joint. Say, cap, are you 
coming my way too? No? Then come along, Mr. Trent, 
and help me get out the car. The chauffeur is out of ac- 
tion, and we have to do ’most everything ourselves except 
clean the dirt off her, 

Still tirelessly talking in his measured drawl, Mr. Bun- 
ner led Trent downstairs and through the house to the 
garage at the back. It stood at a little distance from the 
house, and made a cool retreat from the blaze of the mid- 
day sun. | 

Mr. Bunner seemed to be in no hurry to get out the car. 
He offered Trent a cigar, which was accepted, and for the 
first time lit his own. Then he seated himself on the foot- 
board of the car, his thin hands clasped between his knees, 
and looked keenly at the other. 

“See here, Mr. Trent,’ he said, after a few moments. 
‘There are some things I can tell you that may be useful 
to you. I know your record. You are a smart man, and I 
like dealing with smart men. I don’t know if I have that 
detective sized up right, but he strikes me as a mutt. I 
would answer any questions he had the gumption to ask 
me—I have done so, in fact—but I don’t feel encouraged 
to give him any notions of mine without his asking. See?’ 

Trent nodded. “That is a feeling many people have in 
the presence of our police,’ he said. ‘It’s the official man- 
ner, [ suppose. But let me tell you, Murch is anything but 
what you think. He is one of the shrewdest officers in Eu- 

82 7 AEE 


MR. BUNNER ON THE CASE 


rope. He is not very quick with his mind, but he is very 
sure. And his experience is immense. My forte is imagina- 
tion, but I assure you in police work experience outweighs 
it by a great deal.’ 

‘Outweighs nothing!’ replied Mr. Bunner crisply. “This 
is no ordinary case, Mr. Trent. I will tell you one reason 
why. I believe the old man knew there was something 
coming to him. Another thing: I believe it was something 
he thought he couldn’t dodge,’ 

Trent pulled a crate opposite to Mr. Bunner’s place on 
the footboard and seated himself. “This sounds like busi- 
ness, he said. “Tell me your ideas.’ 

‘I say what I do because of the change in the old man’s 
manner this last few weeks. I dare say you have heard, 
Mr. Trent, that he was a man who always kept himself 
well in hand. That was so. I have always considered him 
the coolest and hardest head in business. That man’s calm 
was just deadly—I never saw anything to beat it. And I 
knew Manderson as nobody else did. I was with him in 
the work he really lived for. I guess I knew him a heap 
better than his wife did, poor woman. I knew him better 
than Marlowe could—he never saw Manderson in his of- 
fice when there was a big thing on. I knew him better 
than any of his friends.’ 

‘Had he any friends?’ interjected Trent. 

Mr. Bunner glanced at him sharply. ‘Somebody has 
been putting you next, I see that, he remarked. ‘No: 
properly speaking, I should say not. He had many ac- 
quaintances among the big men, people he saw ’most 
every day; they would even go yachting or hunting to- 
gether. But I don’t believe there ever was a man that Man- 
derson opened a corner of his heart to. But what I was 
going to say was this. Some months ago the old man be- 
gan to get like I never knew him before—gloomy and sul- 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


len, just as if he was everlastingly brooding over some- 
thing bad, something that he couldn’t fix. This went on 
without any break; it was the same down town as it was 
up home, he acted just as if there was something lying 
heavy on his mind. But it wasn’t until a few weeks back 
that his self-restraint began to go; and let me tell you this, 
Mr. Trent’—the American laid his bony claw on the 
other’s knee—T’m the only man that knows it. With ey- 
eryone else he would be just morose and dull; but when 
he was alone with me in his office, or anywhere where 
we would be working together, if the least little thing 
went wrong, by George! he would fly off the handle 
to beat the Dutch. In this library here I have seen him 
open a letter with something that didn’t just suit him in 
it, and he would rip around and carry on like an Indian, 
saying he wished he had the man that wrote it here, he 
wouldn’t do a thing to him, and so on, till it was just 
pitiful. I never saw such a change. And here’s another 
thing. For a week before he died Manderson neglected 
his work, for the first time in my experience. He wouldn't 
answer a letter or a cable, though things looked like going 
all to pieces over there. I supposed that this anxiety of his, 
whatever it was, had got on to his nerves till they were 
worn out. Once I advised him to see a doctor, and he told 
me to go to hell. But nobody saw this side of him but me. 
If he was having one of these rages in the library here, for 
example, and Mrs. Manderson would come into the room, 
he would be all calm and cold again in an instant.’ 

‘And you put this down to some secret anxiety, a fear 
that somebody had designs on his life?’ asked Trent. 

The American nodded. | 

‘I suppose,’ Trent resumed, “you had considered the idea 
of there being something wrong with his mind—a break- 
down from overstrain, say. That is the first thought that 


84 : 


MR. BUNNER ON THE CASE 


your account suggests to me. Besides, it is what sometimes 
happens to your big business men in America, isn’t it? 
That is the impression one gets from the newspapers.’ 

‘Don’t let them slip you any of that bunk,’ said Mr. 
Bunner earnestly. ‘It’s only the ones who have got rich 
too quick, and can’t make good, who go crazy. Think of 
all our really big men—the men anywhere near Mander- 
son’s size: did you ever hear of any one of them losing his 
senses? They don’t do it—believe me. I know they say 
every man has his loco point,’ Mr. Bunner added reflec- 
tively, ‘but that doesn’t mean genuine, sure-enough crazi- 
ness; it just means some personal eccentricity in a man 
. . . like hating cats . . . or my own weakness of not be- 
ing able to touch any kind of fish-food.’ 

‘Well, what was Manderson’s?” 

_ *He was full of them—the old man. There was his ob- 

jection to all the unnecessary fuss and luxury that wealthy 
people don’t kick at much, as a general rule. He didn’t 
have any use for expensive trifles and ornaments. He 
wouldn’t have anybody do little things for him; he hated 
to have servants tag around after him unless he wanted 
them. And although Manderson was as careful about his 
clothes as any man I ever knew, and his shoes—well, sir, 
the amount of money he spent on shoes was sinful—in 
spite of that, I tell you, he never had a valet. He never 
liked to have anybody touch him. All his life nobody ever 
shaved him.’ 

‘T’ve heard something of that, Trent remarked. “Why 
was it, do you think?’ 

‘Well, Mr. Bunner answered slowly, ‘it was the Man- 
derson habit of mind, I guess; a sort of temper of general 
suspicion and jealousy. They say his father and grandfa- 
ther were just the same. . . . Like a dog with a bone, you 
know, acting as if all the rest of creation was laying for a 


85 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


chance to steal it. He didn’t really zhink the barber would 
start in to saw his head off; he just felt there was a possi- 
bility that he mighz, and he was taking no risks. Then 
again in business he was always convinced that somebody 
else was after his bone—which was true enough a good 
deal of the time; but not all the time. The consequence of 
that was that the old man was the most cautious and 
secret worker in the world of finance; and that had a lot 
to do with his success, too. .. . But that doesn’t amount 
to being a lunatic, Mr. Trent; not by a long way. You ask 
me if Manderson was losing his mind before he died. I 
say I believe he was just worn out with worrying over 
something, and was losing his nerve.’ 

Trent smoked thoughtfully. He wondered how much 
Mr. Bunner knew of the domestic difficulty in his chief’s 
household, and decided to put out a feeler. ‘I understood 
that he had trouble with his wife.’ 

‘Sure,’ replied Mr. Bunner. “But do you suppose a thing 
like that was going to upset Sig Manderson that way? No, 
sir! He was a sight too big a man to be all broken up by 
any worry of that kind.’ 

Trent looked half-incredulously into the eyes of the 
young man. But behind all their shrewdness and inten- 
sity he saw a massive innocence. Mr. Bunner really be- 
lieved a serious breach between husband and wife to be a 
minor source of trouble for a big man. | 

‘What was the trouble between them, anyhow?’ Trent 
inquired. 

‘You can search me,’ Mr. Bunner replied briefly. He 
puffed at his cigar. ‘Marlowe and I have often talked 
about it, and we could never make out a solution. I had a 
notion at first, said Mr. Bunner in a lower voice, leaning 
forward, ‘that the old man was disappointed and vexed 
because he had expected a child; but Marlowe told me 

86 | 


MR. BUNNER ON THE CASE 


that the disappointment on that score was the other way 
around, likely as not. His idea was all right, I guess; he 
gathered it from something said by Mrs. Manderson’s 
French maid.’ 

Trent looked up at him quickly. ‘Célestine!’ he said; and 
his thought was, ‘So that was what she was getting at!’ 

Mr. Bunner misunderstood his glance. ‘Don’t you think 
I'm giving a man away, Mr. Trent,’ he said. ‘Marlowe 
isn’t that kind. Célestine just took a fancy to him because 
he talks French like a native, and she would always be 
holding him up for a gossip. French servants are quite 
unlike English that way. And servant or no servant,’ 
added Mr. Bunner with emphasis, ‘I don’t see how a 
woman could mention such a subject to a man. But the 
French beat me.’ He shook his head slowly. 

“But to come back to what you were telling me just 
now, Trent said. “You believe that Manderson was going 
in terror of his life for some time. Who should threaten 
it? I am quite in the dark.’ 

“Terror—I don’t know,’ replied Mr. Bunner meditative- 
ly. ‘Anxiety, if you like. Or suspense—that’s rather my 
idea of it. The old man was hard to terrify, anyway; and 
more than that, he wasn’t taking any precautions—he 
was actually avoiding them. It looked more like he was 
asking for a quick finish—supposing there’s any truth in 
my idea. Why, he would sit in that library window, 
nights, looking out into the dark, with his white shirt 
just a target for anybody’s gun. As for who should threat- 
en his life—well, sir,’ said Mr. Bunner with a faint smile, 
‘it’s certain you have not lived in the States. To take the 
Pennsylvania coal hold-up alone, there were thirty thou- 
sand men, with women and children to keep, who would 
have jumped at the chance of drilling a hole through the 
man who fixed it so that they must starve or give in to 


87 


TRENT S ‘LAST CASE 


his terms. Thirty thousand of the toughest aliens in the 
country, Mr. Trent. There’s a type of desperado you find 
in that kind of push who has been known to lay for a 
man for years, and kill him when he had forgotten what 
he did. They have been known to dynamite a man in 
Idaho who had done them dirt in New Jersey ten years 
before. Do you suppose the Atlantic is going to stop them? 

. It takes some sand, I tell you, to be a big business 
man in our country. No, sir: the old man knew—had al- 
ways known—that there was a whole crowd of dangerous 
men scattered up and down the States who had it in for 
him. My belief is that he had somehow got to know that 
some of them were definitely after him at last. What licks 
me altogether is why he should have just laid himself 
open to them the way he did—why he never tried to 
dodge, but walked right down into the garden yesterday 
morning to be shot at.’ 

Mr. Bunner ceased to speak, and for a little while both 
men sat with wrinkled brows, faint blue vapours rising 
from their cigars. Then Trent rose. “Your theory is quite 
fresh to me,’ he said. ‘It’s perfectly rational, and it’s only 
a question of whether it fits all the facts. I mustn’t give 
away what I’m doing for my newspaper, Mr. Bunner, but 
I will say this: I have already satisfied myself that this 
was a premeditated crime, and an extraordinarily cun- 
ning one at that. I’m deeply obliged to you. We must 
talk it over again.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I have been 
expected for some time by my friend. Shall we make a 
move?” 

“Two o'clock,’ said Mr. Bunner, consulting his own, as 
he got up from the foot-board. ‘Ten a.m. in little old New 
York. You don’t know Wall Street, Mr. Trent. Let’s you 
and I hope we never see anything nearer hell than what’s 
loose in the Street this minute.’ 


88 


Chapter Vil 


THE LADY IN BLACK 


HE sea broke raging upon the foot of the cliff under 
i a good breeze; the sun flooded the land with life 
from a dappled blue sky. In this perfection of English 
weather Trent, who had slept ill, went down before eight 
o'clock to a pool among the rocks, the direction of which 
had been given him, and dived deep into clear water. Be- 
tween vast gray boulders he swam out to the tossing open, 
forced himself some little way against a coast-wise current, 
and then returned to his refuge battered and refreshed. 
Ten minutes later he was scaling the cliff again, and his 
mind, cleared for the moment of a heavy disgust for the 
affair he had in hand, was turning over his plans for the 
morning. 

It was the day of the inquest, the day after his arrival in 
the place. He had carried matters not much farther after 
parting with the American on the road to Bishopsbridge. 
In the afternoon he had walked from the inn into the 
town, accompanied by Mr. Cupples, and had there made 
certain purchases at a chemist’s shop, conferred privately 
for some time with a photographer, sent off a reply-paid 
- telegram, and made an inquiry at the telephone exchange. 
He had said but little about the case to Mr. Cupples, who 
seemed incurious on his side, and nothing at all about the 
results of his investigation or the steps he was about to 
take. After their return from Bishopsbridge, Trent had 
written a long dispatch for the Record and sent it to be 
telegraphed by the proud hands of the paper’s local repre- 

89 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


sentative. He had afterwards dined with Mr. Cupples, and 
had spent the rest of the evening in meditative solitude on 
the verandah. 

This morning as he scaled the cliff he told himself that 
he had never taken up a case he liked so little, or which 
absorbed him so much. The more he contemplated it in 
the golden sunshine of this new day, the more evil and the 
more challenging it appeared. All that he suspected and 
all that he almost knew had occupied his questing brain 
for hours to the exclusion of sleep; and in this glorious 
light and air, though washed in body and spirit by the 
fierce purity of the sea, he only saw the more clearly the 
darkness of the guilt in which he believed, and was more 
bitterly repelled by the motive at which he guessed. But 
now at least his zeal was awake again, and the sense of 
the hunt quickened. He would neither slacken nor spare; 
here need be no compunction. In the course of the day, 
he hoped, his net would be complete. He had work to do 
in the morning; and with very vivid expectancy, though 
not much serious hope, he awaited the answer to the tele- 
gram which he had shot into the sky, as it were, the day 
before. 

The path back to the hotel wound for some way along 
the top of the cliff, and on nearing a spot he had marked 
from the sea-level, where the face had fallen away long 
ago, he approached the edge and looked down, hoping to 
follow with his eyes the most delicately beautiful of all 
the movements of water—the wash of a light sea over 
' broken rock. But no rock was there. A few feet below him 
a broad ledge stood out, a rough platform as large as a 
great room, thickly grown with wiry grass and walled in 
steeply on three sides. There, close to the verge where the 
cliff at last dropped sheer, a woman was sitting, her arms 


go 


THE LADY IN BLACK 


about her drawn-up knees, her eyes fixed on the trailing 
smoke of a distant liner, her face full of some dream. 
This woman seemed to Trent, whose training had 
taught him to live in his eyes, to make the most beautiful 
picture he had ever seen. Her face of southern pallor, 
touched by the kiss of the wind with colour on the cheek, 
presented to him a profile of delicate regularity in which 
there was nothing hard; nevertheless the black brows 
bending down toward the point where they almost met 
gave her in repose a look of something like severity, 
strangely redeemed by the open curves of the mouth. 
Trent said to himself that the absurdity or otherwise 
of a lover writing sonnets to his mistress’s eyebrow de- 
pended after all on the quality of the eyebrow. Her nose 
was of the straight and fine sort, exquisitely escaping the 
perdition of too much length, which makes a conscien- 
tious mind ashamed that it cannot help, on occasion, ad- 
miring the tip-tilted. Her hat lay pinned to the grass be- 
side her, and the lively breeze played with her thick dark 
hair, blowing backward the two broad bandeaux that 
should have covered much of her forehead, and agitating 
a hundred tiny curls from the mass gathered at her nape. 
Everything about this lady was black, from her shoes of 
suede to the hat that she had discarded; lustreless black 
covered her to her bare throat. All she wore was fine and 
well put on. Dreamy and delicate of spirit as her looks 
declared her, it was very plain that she was long-practised 
as only a woman grown can be in dressing well, the old- 
est of the arts, and had her touch of primal joy in the ex- 
cellence of the body that was so admirably curved now in 
the attitude of embraced knees. With the suggestion of 
French taste in her clothes, she made a very modern fig- 
ure seated there, until one looked at her face and saw the 


gi 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


glow and triumph of all vigorous beings that ever faced 
sun and wind and sea together in the prime of the year. 
One saw, too, 2 womanhood so unmixed and vigorous, 
so unconsciously sure of itself, as scarcely to be English, 
still less American. 

Trent, who had halted only for a moment in the surprise 
of seeing the woman in black, had passed by on the cliff 
above her, perceiving and feeling as he went the things set 
down. At all times his keen vision and active brain took 
in and tasted details with an easy swiftness that was mar- 
vellous to men of slower chemistry; the need to stare, he 
held, was evidence of blindness. Now the feeling of beauty 
was awakened and exultant, and doubled the power of 
his sense. In these instants a picture was printed on his 
memory that would never pass away. 

As he went by unheard on the turf the woman, still 
alone with her thoughts, suddenly moved. She unclasped 
her long hands from about her knees, stretched her limbs 
and body with feline grace, then slowly raised her head 
and extended her arms with open, curving fingers, as if 
to gather to her all the glory and overwhelming sanity 
of the morning. This was a gesture not to be mistaken: 
it was a gesture of freedom, the movement of a soul’s 
resolution to be, to possess, to go forward, perhaps to en- 
joy. 

So he saw her for an instant as he passed, and he did 
not turn. He knew suddenly who the woman must be, 
and it was as if a curtain of gloom were drawn between 
him and the splendour of the day. 


During breakfast at the hotel Mr. Cupples found Trent 


little inclined to talk. He excused himself on the ‘plea of 
a restless night. Mr. Cupples, on the other hand, was in a 


g2 


THE LADY IN BLACK 


state of bird-like alertness. The prospect of the inquest 
seemed to enliven him. He entertained Trent with a dis- 
quisition upon the history of that most ancient and once 
busy tribunal, the coroner’s court, and remarked upon the 
enviable freedom of its procedure from the shackles of 
rule and precedent. From this he passed to the case that 
was to come before it that morning. 

‘Young Bunner mentioned to me last night,’ he said, 
‘when I went up there after dinner, the hypothesis which 
he puts forward in regard to the crime. A very remarka- 
ble young man, Trent. His meaning is occasionally ob- 
scure, but in my opinion he is gifted with a clear-headed 
knowledge of the world quite unusual in one of his ap- 
parent age. Indeed, his promotion by Manderson to the 
position of his principal lieutenant speaks for itself. He 
seems to have assumed with perfect confidence the con- 
trol at this end of the wire, as he expresses it, of the com- 
plicated business situation caused by the death of his prin- 
cipal, and he has advised very wisely as to the steps I 
should take on Mabel’s behalf, and the best course for her 
to pursue until effect has been given to the provisions of 
the will. I was accordingly less disposed than I might oth- 
erwise have been to regard his suggestion of an industrial 
vendetta as far-fetched. When I questioned him he was 
able to describe a number of cases in which attacks of 
one sort or another—too often successful—had been made 
upon the lives of persons who had incurred the hostility 
of powerful labour organizations. This is a terrible time 
in which we live, my dear boy. There is none recorded in 
history, I think, in which the disproportion between the 
material and the moral constituents of society has been 
sO great or so menacing to the permanence of the fabric. 
But nowhere, in my judgment, is the prospect so dark as 
it is in the United States.’ 


oS 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


‘I thought,’ said Trent listlessly, ‘that Puritanism was 
about as strong there as the money-getting craze.’ 

‘Your remark,’ answered Mr. Cupples, with as near an 
approach to humour as was possible to him, “is not in the 
nature of a testimonial to what you call Puritanism—a 
convenient rather than an accurate term; for I need not 
remind you that it was invented to describe an Anglican 
party which aimed at the purging of the services and 
ritual of their Church from certain elements repugnant 
to them. The sense of your observation, however, is none 
the less sound, and its truth is extremely well illustrated 
by the case of Manderson himself, who had, I believe, 
the virtues of purity, abstinence, and self-restraint in their 
strongest form. No, Trent, there are other and more wor- 
thy things among the moral constituents of which I 
spoke; and in our finite nature, the more we preoccupy 
ourselves with the bewildering complexity of external ap- 
paratus which science places in our hands, the less vigour 
have we left for the development of the holier purposes 
of humanity within us. Agricultural machinery has abol- 
ished the festival of the Harvest Home. Mechanical travel 
has abolished the inn, or all that was best in it. I need not 
multiply instances. The view I am expressing to you,’ 
pursued Mr. Cupples, placidly buttering a piece of toast, 
‘ts regarded as fundamentally erroneous by many of those 
who think generally as I do about the deeper concerns of 
life, but I am nevertheless firmly persuaded of its truth.’ 

‘It needs epigrammatic expression, said Trent, rising 
from the table. ‘If only it could be crystallized into some 
handy formula, like “No Popery,” or “Tax the Foreigner,” 
you would find multitudes to go to the stake for it. But 
you are planning to go to White Gables before the in- 
quest, I think. You ought to be off, if you are to get back 
to the court in time. I have something to attend to there 


94 


THE LADY IN BLACK 


myself, so we might walk up together. I will just go and 
get my camera.’ 

‘By all means,’ Mr. Cupples answered; and they set off 
at once in the ever-growing warmth of the morning. The 
roof of White Gables, a surly patch of dull red against 
the dark trees, seemed to harmonize with Trent’s mood; 
he felt heavy, sinister, and troubled. If a blow must fall 
that might strike down that creature radiant of beauty 
and life whom he had seen that morning, he did not wish 
it to come from his hand. An exaggerated chivalry had 
lived in Trent since the first teachings of his mother; but 
at this moment the horror of bruising anything so lovely 
was almost as much the artist’s revulsion as the gentle- 
man’s. On the other hand, was the hunt to end in noth- 
ing? The quality of the affair was such that the thought 
of forbearance was an agony. There never was such a 
case; and he alone, he was confident, held the truth of it 
under his hand. At least, he determined, that day should 
show whether what he believed was a delusion. He would 
trample his compunction underfoot until he was quite 
sure that there was any call for it. That same morning he 
would know. 

As they entered at the gate of the drive they saw Mar- 
lowe and the American standing in talk before the front 
door. In the shadow of the porch was the lady in black. 

She saw them, and came gravely forward over the lawn, 
moving as Trent had known that she would move, erect 
and balanced, stepping lightly. When she welcomed him 
on Mr. Cupples’s presentation her eyes of golden-flecked 
brown observed him kindly. In her pale composure, worn 
as the mask of distress, there was no trace of the emotion 
that had seemed a halo about her head on the ledge of the 
cliff. She spoke the appropriate commonplace in a low 


95 


TRENT’ S LAST CASE 


and even voice. After a few words to Mr. Cupples she 
turned her eyes on Trent again. 

‘I hope you will succeed, she said earnestly. ‘Do you 
think you will succeed?’ 

He made his mind up as the words left her lips. He 
said, ‘I believe I shall do so, Mrs. Manderson. When I 
have the case sufficiently complete I shall ask you to let 
me see you and tell you about it. It may be necessary to 
consult you before the facts are published.’ 3 

She looked puzzled, and distress showed for an instant 
in her eyes. ‘If it is necessary, of course you shall do so,’ 
she said. 

On the brink of his next speech Trent hesitated. He re- 
membered that the lady had not wished to repeat to him 
the story already given to the inspector—or to be ques- 
tioned at all. He was not unconscious that he desired to 
hear her voice and watch her face a little longer, if it 
might be; but the matter he had to mention really troub- 
led his mind, it was a queer thing that fitted nowhere 
into the pattern within whose corners he had by this time 
brought the other queer things in the case. It was very 
possible that she could explain it away in a breath; it was 
unlikely that anyone else could. He summoned his resolu- 
tion. 

“You have been so kind,’ he said, ‘in allowing me access 
to the house and every opportunity of studying the case, 
that I am going to ask leave to put a question or two to 
yourself—nothing that you would rather not answer, I 
think. May I?’ 

She glanced at him wearily. ‘It would be stupid of me 
to refuse. Ask your questions, Mr. Trent.’ 

‘It’s only this, said Trent hurriedly. ‘We know that 
your husband lately drew an unusually large sum of ready 
money from his London bankers, and was keeping it here. 


96 


THE LADY IN BLACK 


It is here now, in fact. Have you any idea why he should 
have done that?’ 

She opened her eyes in astonishment. ‘I cannot imag- 
ine, she said. ‘I did not know he had done so. I am very 
much surprised to hear it.’ 

‘Why is it surprising?’ 

‘T thought my husband had very little money in the 
house. On Sunday night, just before he went out in the 
motor, he came into the drawing-room where I was sit- 
ting. He seemed to be irritated about something, and 
asked me at once if I had any notes or gold I could let 
him have until next day. I was surprised at that, because 
he was never without money; he made it a rule to carry 
a hundred pounds or so about him always in a note-case. 
I unlocked my escritoire, and gave him all I had by me. 
It was nearly thirty pounds.’ 

_ “And he did not tell you why he wanted it?’ 

‘No. He put it in his pocket, and then said that Mr. 
Marlowe had persuaded him to go for a run in the motor 
by moonlight, and he thought it might help him to sleep. 
He had been sleeping badly, as perhaps you know. Then 
he went off with Mr. Marlowe. I thought it odd he should 
need money on Sunday night, but I soon forgot about it. 
I never remembered it again until now.’ 

‘It was curious, certainly,’ said Trent, staring into the 
distance. Mr. Cupples began to speak to his niece of the 
arrangements for the inquest, and Trent moved away to 
where Marlowe was pacing slowly upon the lawn. The 
young man seemed relieved to talk about the coming 
business of the day. Though he still seemed tired out and 
nervous, he showed himself not without a quiet humour 
in describing the pomposities of the local police and the 
portentous airs of Dr. Stock. Trent turned the conversa- 


97 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


tion gradually toward the problem of the crime, and all 
Marlowe’s gravity returned. 

‘Bunner has told me what he thinks,’ he said when 
Trent referred to the American’s theory. ‘I don’t find my- 
self convinced by it, because it doesn’t really explain some 
of the oddest facts. But I have lived long enough in the 
United States to know that such a stroke of revenge, done 
in a secret, melodramatic way, is not an unlikely thing. It 
is quite a characteristic feature of certain sections of the 
labour movement there. Americans have a taste and a 
talent for that sort of business. Do you know Huckleberry 
Finn?’ 

‘Do I know my own name?’ exclaimed Trent. 

“Well, I think the most American thing in that great 
American epic is Tom Sawyer’s elaboration of an ex- 
tremely difficult and romantic scheme, taking days to 
carry out, for securing the escape of the nigger Jim, which 
could have been managed quite easily in twenty minutes. 
You know how fond they are of lodges and brotherhoods. 
Every college club has its secret signs and handgrips. 
You've heard of the Know-Nothing movement in politics, 
I dare say, and the Ku Klux Klan. Then look at Brigham 
Young’s penny-dreadful tyranny in Utah, with real blood. 
The founders of the Mormon State were of the purest 
Yankee stock in America; and you know what they did. 
It’s all part of the same mental tendency. Americans 
make fun of it among themselves. For my part, I take it 
very seriously.’ 

‘It can have a very hideous side to it, certainly,’ said 
Trent, ‘when you get it in connection with crime—or with 
vice—or even mere luxury. But I have a sort of sneaking 
respect for the determination to make life interesting and 
lively in spite of civilization. To return to the matter in 


98 


THE LADY IN BLACK 


hand, however; has it struck you as a possibility that Man- 
derson’s mind was affected to some extent by this menace 
that Bunner believes in? For instance, it was rather an 
extraordinary thing to send you posting off like that in 
the middle of the night.’ 

‘About ten o'clock, to be exact, replied Marlowe. 
“Though, mind you, if he’d actually roused me out of my 
bed at midnight I shouldn’t have been very much sur- 
prised. It all chimes in with what we’ve just been saying. 
Manderson had a strong streak of the national taste for 
dramatic proceedings. He was rather fond of his well- 
earned reputation for unexpected strokes and for going 
for his object with ruthless directness through every op- 
posing consideration. He had decided suddenly that he 
wanted to have word from this man Harris—— 

‘Who is Harris?’ interjected Trent. 

‘Nobody knows. Even Bunner never heard of him, and 
can’t imagine what the business in hand was. All I know 
is that when I went up to London last week to attend to 
various things I booked a deck-cabin, at Manderson’s re- 
quest, for a Mr. George Harris on the boat that sailed on 
Monday. ‘It seems that Manderson suddenly found he 
wanted news from Harris which presumably was of a 
character too secret for the telegraph; and there was no 
train that served; so I was sent off as you know.’ 

Trent looked round to make sure that they were not 
overheard, then faced the other gravely. “There is one 
thing I may tell you, he said quietly, ‘that I don’t think 
you know. Martin the butler caught a few words at the 
end of your conversation with Manderson in the orchard 
before you started with him in the car. He heard him say, 
“If Harris is there, every moment is of importance.” Now, 
Mr. Marlowe, you know my business here. | am sent to 


99 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


make inquiries, and you mustn't take offence. I want to 
ask you if, in the face of that sentence, you will repeat 
that you know nothing of what the business was.’ 

Marlowe shook his head. ‘I know nothing, indeed. I’m 
not easily offended, and your question is quite fair. What 
passed during that conversation I have already told the 
detective. Manderson plainly said to me that he could not 
tell me what it was all about. He simply wanted me to 
find Harris, tell him that he desired to know how matters 
stood, and bring back a letter or message from him. Har- 
ris, | was further told, might not turn up. If he did, “every 
moment was of importance.” And now you know as much 
as I do’ 

“That talk took place before he told his wife that you 
were taking him for a moonlight run. Why did he con- 
ceal your errand in that way, I wonder.’ 

The young man made a gesture of helplessness. ‘Why? 
I can guess no better than you.’ 

‘Why,’ muttered Trent as if to himself, gazing on the 


ground, “did he conceal it—from Mrs. Manderson?’ He — 


looked up at Marlowe. 

“And from Martin, the other amended coolly. ‘He was 
told the same thing.’ 

With a sudden movement of his head Trent seemed to 
dismiss the subject. He drew from his breast-pocket a let- 
ter-case, and thence extracted two small leaves of clean, 
fresh paper. 

‘Just look at these two slips, Mr. Marlowe,’ he atl ‘Did 
you ever see them before? Have you any idea where they 
come from?’ he added as Marlowe took one in sg hand 
and examined them curiously. 

“They seem to have been cut with a knife or scissors 
from a small diary for this year—from the October pages,’ 
Marlowe observed, looking them over on both sides. ‘I 

00 


THE LADY IN BLACK 


see no writing of any kind on them. Nobody here has any 
such diary so far as I know. What about them?’ 

“There may be nothing in it, Trent said dubiously. 
“Anyone in the house, of course, might have such a diary 
without your having seen it. But I didn’t much expect 
you would be able to identify the leaves—in fact, I should 
have been surprised if you had.’ 

He stopped speaking as Mrs. Manderson came towards 
them. “My uncle thinks we should be going now,’ she 
said. 

‘T think I will walk on with Mr. Bunner,’ Mr. Cupples 
said as he joined them. “There are certain business mat- 
ters that must be disposed of as soon as possible. Will you 
come on with these two gentlemen, Mabel? We will wait 
for you before we reach the place.’ 

Trent turned to her. ‘Mrs. Manderson will excuse me, 
I hope,’ he said. ‘I really came up this morning in order to 
look about me here for some indications I thought I might 
possibly find. I had not thought of attending the—the 
court just yet.’ 

She looked at him with eyes of perfect candour. ‘Of 
course, Mr. Trent. Please do exactly as you wish. We are 
all relying upon you. If you will wait a few moments, Mr. 
Marlowe, I shall be ready.’ 

She entered the house. Her uncle and the American 
had already strolled towards the gate. 

Trent looked into the eyes of his companion. “That is a 
wonderful woman,’ he said in a lowered voice. 

‘You say so without knowing héf,’ replied Marlowe in 
a similar tone. ‘She is more than that.’ 

Trent said nothing to this. He stared out over the fields 
towards the sea. In the silence a noise of hobnailed haste 
rose on the still air. A little distance down the road a boy 
appeared trotting towards them from the direction of the 


IOI 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


hotel. In his hand was the orange envelope, unmistakable 
afar off, of a telegram. Trent watched him with an in- 
different eye as he met and passed the two others. Then 
he turned to Marlowe. ‘Apropos of nothing in particular,’ 
he said, “were you at Oxford?’ 

‘Yes,’ said the young man. “Why do you ask?’ 

‘I just wondered if I was right in my guess. It’s one of 
the things you can very often tell about a man, isn’t it?’ 

‘I suppose so,’ Marlowe said. “Well, each of us is marked 
in one way or another, perhaps. I should have said you 
were an artist, if I hadn’t known it’ 

“Why? Does my hair want cutting?’ 

‘Oh, no! It’s only that you look at things and people 
as I’ve seen artists do, with an eye that moves steadily 
from detail to detail—rather looking them over than look- 
ing at them.’ 

The boy came up panting. “Telegram for you, sir,’ he 
said to Trent. ‘Just come, sir.’ 

Trent tore open the envelope with an apology, and his 
eyes lighted up so visibly as he read the slip that Mar- 
lowe’s tired face softened in a smile. 

‘It must be good news,’ he murmured half to himself. 

Trent turned on him a glance in which nothing could 
be read. “Not exactly news,’ he said. ‘It only tells me that 
another little guess of mine was a good one.’ 


IO2 


Chapter VIII 


ZHE INQUEST 


HE coroner, who fully realized that for that one day 
ai af his life as a provincial solicitor he was living in 
the gaze of the world, had resolved to be worthy of the 
fleeting eminence. He was a large man of jovial temper, 
with a strong interest in the dramatic aspects of his work, 
and the news of Manderson’s mysterious death within 
his jurisdiction had made him the happiest coroner in 
England. A respectable capacity for marshalling facts was 
fortified in him by a copiousness of impressive language 
that made juries as clay in his hands, and sometimes dis- 
guised a doubtful interpretation of the rules of evidence. 

The court was held in a long, unfurnished room lately 
built on to the hotel, and intended to serve as a ball-room 
or concert-hall. A regiment of reporters was entrenched 
in the front seats, and those who were to be called on to 
give evidence occupied chairs to one side of the table be- 
hind which the coroner sat, while the jury, in double row, 
with plastered hair and a spurious ease of manner, flanked 
him on the other side. An undistinguished public filled 
the rest of the space, and listened, in an awed silence, to 
the opening solemnities. The newspaper men, well used 
to these, muttered among themselves. Those of them who 
knew Trent by sight assured the rest that he was not in 
the court. 

The identity of the dead man was proved by his wife, 
the first witness called, from whom the coroner, after 
some inquiry into the health and circumstances of the de- 


103 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


ceased, proceeded to draw an account of the last occasion 
on which she had seen her husband alive. Mrs. Mander- 
son was taken through her evidence by the coroner with 
the sympathy which every man felt for that dark figure 
of grief. She lifted her thick veil before beginning to 
speak, and the extreme paleness and unbroken composure 
of the lady produced a singular impression. This was not 
an impression of hardness. Interesting femininity was the 
first thing to be felt in her presence. She was not even 
enigmatic. It was only clear that the force of a powerful 
character was at work to master the emotions of her situa- 
tion. Once or twice as she spoke she touched her eyes with 
her handkerchief, but her voice was low and clear to the 
end. 

Her husband, she said, had come up to his bedroom 
about his usual hour for retiring on Sunday night. His 
room was really a dressing-room attached to her own bed- 
room, communicating with it by a door which was usual- 
ly kept open during the night. Both dressing-room and 
bedroom were entered by other doors giving on the pas- _ 
sage. Her husband had always had a preference for the 
greatest simplicity in his bedroom arrangements, and liked 
to sleep in a small room. She had not been awake when he > 
came up, but had been half-aroused, as usually happened, 
when the light was switched on in her husband’s room. 
She had spoken to him. She had no clear recollection of 
what she had said, as she had been very drowsy at the 
time; but she had remembered that he had been out for 
a moonlight run in the car, and she believed she had 
asked whether he had had a good run, and what time it. 
was. She had asked what the time was because she felt 
as if she had only been a very short time asleep, and she 
had expected her husband to be out very late. In answer 
to her question he had told her it was half-past eleven, 

104 


THE INQUEST 


and had gone on to say that he had changed his mind 
about going for a run. 

‘Did he say why?’ the Coroner asked. 

Yes,’ replied the lady, ‘he did explain why. I remember 
very well what he said, because——’ she stopped with a 
little appearance of confusion. 

‘Because’ the coroner insisted gently. 

“Because my husband was not as a rule communicative 
about his business affairs, answered the witness, raising 
her chin with a faint touch of defiance. ‘He did not—did 
not think they would interest me, and as a rule referred 
to them as little as possible. That was why I was rather 
surprised when he told me that he had sent Mr. Marlowe 
to Southampton to bring back some important informa- 
tion from a man who was leaving for Paris by the next 
day’s boat. He said that Mr. Marlowe could do it quite 
easily if he had no accident. He said that he had started 
in the car, and then walked back home a mile or so, and 
felt all the better for it.’ 

‘Did he say any more?’ 

‘Nothing, as well as I remember,’ the witness said. ‘I 
was very sleepy, and I dropped off again in a few mo- 
ments. I just remember my husband turning his light out, 
and that is all. I never saw him again alive.’ 

‘And you heard nothing in the night?’ 

‘No: I never woke until my maid brought my tea in the 
morning at seven o'clock. She closed the door leading to 
my husband’s room, as she always did, and I supposed 
him to be still there. He always needed a great deal of 
sleep. He sometimes slept until quite late in the morning. 
I had breakfast in my sitting-room. It was about ten when 
I heard that my husband’s body had been found.’ The 
witness dropped her head and silently waited for her dis- 
missal. 

105 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


But it was not to be yet. 

‘Mrs. Manderson.’ The coroner’s voice was sympathetic, 
but it had a hint of firmness in it now. “The question I 
am going to put to you must, in these sad circumstances, 
be a painful one; but it is my duty to ask it. Is it the fact 
that your relations with your late husband had not been, 
for some time past, relations of mutual affection and con- 
fidence? Is it the fact that there was an estrangement be- 
tween you?’ 

The lady drew herself up again and faced her ques- 
tioner, the colour rising in her cheeks. ‘If that question is 
necessary, she said with cold distinctness, “I will answer 
it so that there shall be no misunderstanding. During the 
last few months of my husband’s life his attitude towards 
me had given me a great deal of anxiety and sorrow. He 
had changed towards me; he had become very reserved, 
and seemed mistrustful. I saw much less of him than be- 
fore; he seemed to prefer to be alone. I can give no ex- 
planation at all of the change. I tried to work against it; 
I did all I could with justice to my own dignity, as I 
thought. Something was between us, I did not know 
what, and he never told me. My own obstinate pride pre- 
vented me from asking what it was in so many words; I 
only made a point of being to him exactly as I had always 
been, so far as he would allow me. I suppose I shall never 
know now what it was.’ The witness, whose voice had 
trembled in spite of her self-control over the last few sen- 
tences, drew down her veil when she had said this, and 
stood erect and quiet. 

One of the jury asked a question, not without obvious 
hesitation. “Then was there never anything of the nature 
of what they call Words between you and your husband, 
ma’am ?’ , 

‘Never.’ The word was colourlessly spoken; but every- 

106 


THE INQUEST 


one felt that a crass misunderstanding of the possibilities 
of conduct in the case of a person like Mrs. Manderson 
had been visited with some severity. 

Did she know, the coroner asked, of any other matter 
which might have been preying upon her husband’s mind 
recently r 

Mrs. Manderson knew of none whatever. The coroner 
intimated that her ordeal was at an end, and the veiled 
lady made her way to the door. The general attention, 
which followed her for a few moments, was now eagerly 
directed upon Martin, whom the coroner had proceeded 
to call. 

It was at this moment that Trent appeared at the door- 
way and edged his way into the great room. But he did 
not look at Martin. He was observing the well-balanced 
figure that came quickly toward him along an opening 
path in the crowd, and his eye was gloomy. He started, as 
he stood aside from the door with a slight bow, to hear 
Mrs. Manderson address him by name in a low voice. He 
followed her a pace or two into the hall. 

‘I wanted to ask you,’ she said in a voice now weak and 
oddly broken, ‘if you would give me your arm a part of 
the way to the house. I could not see my uncle near the 
door, and I suddenly felt rather faint. . . . I shall be bet- 
ter in the air. . . . No, no; I cannot stay here—please, Mr. 
Trent!’ she said, as he began to make an obvious sugges- 
tion. ‘I must go to the house.’ Her hand tightened mo- 
mentarily on his arm as if, for all her weakness, she could 
drag him from the place; then again she leaned heavily 
upon it, and with that support, and with bent head, she 
walked slowly from the hotel and along the oak-shaded 
path towards White Gables. 

Trent went in silence, his thoughts whirling, dancing 
insanely to a chorus of ‘Fool! fool!’ All that he alone 
107 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


knew, all that he guessed and suspected of this affair, 
rushed through his brain in a rout; but the touch of her 
unnerved hand upon his arm never for an instant left his 
consciousness, filling him with an exaltation that enraged 
and bewildered him. He was still cursing himself furious- 
ly behind the mask of conventional solicitude that he 
turned to the lady when he had attended her to the house 
and seen her sink upon a couch in the morning-room. 
Raising her veil, she thanked him gravely and frankly, 
with a look of sincere gratitude in her eyes. She was much 
better now, she said, and a cup of tea would work a mir- 
acle upon her. She hoped she had not taken him away 
from anything important. She was ashamed of herself; 
she thought she could go through with it, but she had not 
expected those last questions. ‘I am glad you did not hear 
me,’ she said when he explained. ‘But of course you will 
read it all in the reports. It shook me so to have to speak 
of that,’ she added simply; ‘and to keep from making an 
exhibition of myself took it out of me. And all those star- 
ing men by the door! Thank you again for helping me 
when I asked you. ...I thought I might,’ she ended 
queerly, with a little tired smile; and Trent took himself 
away, his hand still quivering from the cool touch of her 
fingers. 


The testimony of the servants and of the finder of the 
body brought nothing new to the reporters’ net. That of 
the police was as colourless and cryptic as is usual at the 
inquest stage of affairs of the kind. Greatly to the satis- 
faction of Mr. Bunner, his evidence afforded the sensa- 
tion of the day, and threw far into the background the 
interesting revelation of domestic difficulty made by the 
dead man’s wife. He told the court in substance what 


108 


THE INQUEST 


he had already told Trent. The flying pencils did not miss 
a word of the young American’s story, and it appeared 
with scarcely the omission of a sentence in every journal 
of importance in Great Britain and the United States. 
Public opinion next day took no note of the faint sug- 
gestion of the possibility of suicide which the coroner, in 
his final address to the jury, had thought it right to make 
in connection with the lady’s evidence. The weight of 
evidence, as the official had indeed pointed out, was 
against such a theory. He had referred with emphasis to 
the fact that no weapon had been found near the body. 
“This question, of course, is all-important, gentlemen,’ 
he had said to the jury. ‘It is, in fact, the main issue before 
you. You have seen the body for yourselves. You have just 
heard the medical evidence; but I think it would be well 
for me to read you my notes of it in so far as they bear on 
this point, in order to refresh your memories. Dr. Stock 
told you—I am going to omit all technical medical lan- 
guage and repeat to you merely the plain English of his 
testimony—that in his opinion death had taken place six 
or eight hours previous to the finding of the body. He 
said that the cause of death was a bullet wound, the bullet 
having entered the left eye, which was destroyed, and 
made its way to the base of the brain, which was quite 
shattered. The external appearance of the wound, he said, 
did not support the hypothesis of its being self-inflicted, 
inasmuch as there were no signs of the firearm having 
been pressed against the eye, or even put very close to it; 
at the same time it was not physically impossible that the 
weapon should have been discharged by the deceased with 
his own hand, at some small distance from the eye. Dr. 
Stock also told us that it was impossible to say with cer- 
tainty, from the state of the body, whether any struggle had 
taken place at the time of death; that when seen by him, at 


109 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


which time he understood that it had not been moved 
since it was found, the body was lying in a collapsed po- 
sition such as might very well result from the shot alone; 
but that the scratches and bruises upon the wrists and the 
lower part of the arms had been very recently inflicted, 
and were, in his opinion, marks of violence. 

‘In connection with this same point, the remarkable 
evidence given by Mr. Bunner cannot be regarded, I 
think, as without significance. It may have come as a sur- 
prise to some of you to hear that risks of the character 
described by this witness are, in his own country, com- 
monly run by persons in the position of the deceased. On 
the other hand, it may have been within the knowledge 
of some of you that in the industrial world of America 
the discontent of labour often proceeds to lengths of which 
we in England happily know nothing. I have interro- 
gated the witness somewhat fully upon this. At the same 
time, gentlemen, I am by no means suggesting that Mr. 
Bunner’s personal conjecture as to the cause of death can 
fitly be adopted by you. That is emphatically not the case. 
What his evidence does is to raise two questions for your 
consideration. First, can it be said that the deceased was 
to any extent in the position of a threatened man—of a 
man more exposed to the danger of murderous attack 
than an ordinary person? Second, does the recent altera- 
tion in his demeanour, as described by this witness, justify 
the belief that his last days were overshadowed by a great 
anxiety? These points may legitimately be considered by 
you in arriving at a conclusion upon the rest of the evi- 
dence.’ 

Thereupon the coroner, having indicated thus clearly 
his opinion that Mr. Bunner had hit the right nail on the 
head, desired the jury to consider their verdict. 


Ito 


Chapter IX 
A HOT SCENT 


oME in!’ called Trent. 

Mr. Cupples entered his sitting-room at the hotel. 
It was the early evening of the day on which the coroner’s 
jury, without leaving the box, had pronounced the ex- 
pected denunciation of a person or persons unknown. 
Trent, with a hasty glance upward, continued his intent 
study of what lay in a photographic dish of enamelled 
metal, which he moved slowly about in the light of the 
window. He looked very pale, and his movements were 
nervous. 

‘Sit on the sofa,’ he advised. “The chairs are a job lot 
bought at the sale after the suppression of the Holy In- 
quisition in Spain. This is a pretty good negative, he went 
on, holding it up to the light with his head at the angle 
of discriminating judgment. ‘Washed enough now, I 
think. Let us leave it to dry, and get rid of all this mess.’ 

Mr. Cupples, as the other busily cleared the table of a 
confusion of basins, dishes, racks, boxes, and bottles, picked 
up first one and then another of the objects and studied 
them with innocent curiosity. 

“That is called hypo-eliminator,’ said Trent, as Mr. Cup- 
ples uncorked and smelt at one of the bottles. “Very useful 
when you're in a hurry with a negative. I shouldn’t drink 
it, though, all the same. It eliminates sodium hypophos- 
phite, but I shouldn’t wonder if it would eliminate human 
beings too.’ He found a place for the last of the litter on 
the crowded mantel-shelf, and came to sit before Mr. Cup- 
III 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


ples on the table. “The great thing about a hotel sitting- 
room is that its beauty does not distract the mind from 
work. It is no place for the mayfly pleasures of a mind at 
ease. Have you ever been in this room before, Cupples? 
I have, hundreds of times. It has pursued me all over Eng- 
land for years. I should feel lost without it if, in some 
fantastic, far-off hotel, they were to give me some other 
sitting-room. Look at this table-cover; there is the ink I 
spilt on it when I had this room in Halifax. I burnt that 
hole in the carpet when I had it in Ipswich. But I see 
they have mended the glass over the picture of “Silent 
Sympathy,” which I threw a boot at in Banbury. I do all 
my best work here. This afternoon, for instance, since the 
inquest, I have finished several excellent negatives. There 
is a very good dark room downstairs.’ 

“The inquest—that reminds me,’ said Mr. Cupples, who 
knew that this sort of talk in Trent meant the excitement 
of action, and was wondering what he could be about. ‘I 
came in to thank you, my dear fellow, for looking after 
Mabel this morning. I had no idea she was going to feel 
ill after leaving the box; she seemed quite unmoved, and, 
really, she is a woman of such extraordinary self-com- 
mand, I thought I could leave her to her own devices and 
hear out the evidence, which I thought it important I 
should do. It was a very fortunate thing she found a 
friend to assist her, and she is most grateful. She is quite 
herself again now.’ 

Trent, with his hands in his pockets and a slight frown 
on his brow, made no reply to this. ‘I tell you what, he 
said after a short pause, ‘I was just getting to the really 
interesting part of the job when you came in. Come; 
would you like to see a little bit of high-class police work? 
It’s the very same kind of work that old Murch ought to 
be doing at this moment. Perhaps he is; but I hope to 

112 


A HOT SCENT 


glory he isn’t.’ He sprang off the table and disappeared 
into his bedroom. Presently he came out with a large 
drawing-board on which a number of heterogeneous ob- 
jects was ranged. 

‘First I must introduce you to these little things,’ he 
said, setting them out on the table. ‘Here is a big ivory 
paper-knife; here are two leaves cut out of a diary—my 
own diary; here is a bottle containing dentifrice; here is 
a little case of polished walnut. Some of these things have 
to be put back where they belong in somebody’s bedroom 
at White Gables before night. That’s the sort of man I 
am—nothing stops me. I borrowed them this very morn- 
ing when everyone was down at the inquest, and I dare 
say some people would think it rather an odd proceeding 
if they knew. Now there remains one object on the board. 
Can you tell me, without touching it, what it is?’ 

‘Certainly I can, said Mr. Cupples, peering at it with 
great interest. ‘It is an ordinary glass bowl. It looks like a 
finger-bowl. I see nothing odd about it,’ he added after 
some moments of close scrutiny. 

‘I can’t see much myself, replied Trent, ‘and that is 
exactly where the fun comes in. Now take this little fat 
bottle, Cupples, and pull out the cork. Do you recognize 
that powder inside it? You have swallowed pounds of it 
in your time, I expect. They give it to babies. Grey pow- 
der is its ordinary name—mercury and chalk. It is great 
stuff. Now, while I hold the basin sideways over a sheet 
of paper, I want. you to pour a little powder out of the 
bottle over this part of the bowl—just here. . . . Perfect! 
Sir Edward Henry himself could not have handled the 
powder better. You have done this before, Cupples, I can 
see. You are an old hand.’ 

‘I really am not, said Mr. Cupples seriously, as Trent 

113 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


returned the fallen powder to the bottle. ‘I assure you it 
is all a complete mystery to me. What did I do then?’ 

‘I brush the powdered part of the bowl lightly with this 
camel-hair brush. Now look at it again. You saw nothing 
odd about it before. Do you see anything now?’ 

Mr. Cupples peered again. “How curious!’ he said. “Yes, 
there are two large gray finger-marks on the bowl. They 
were not there before.’ 

‘T am Hawkshaw the detective,’ observed Trent. 
‘Would it interest you to hear a short lecture on the sub- 
ject of glass finger-bowls? When you take one up with 
your hand you leave traces upon it, usually practically in- 
visible, which may remain for days or months. You leave 
the marks of your fingers. The human hand, even when 
quite clean, is never quite dry, and sometimes—in mo- 
ments of great anxiety, for instance, Cupples—it is very 
moist. It leaves a mark on any cold smooth surface it 
may touch. That bowl was moved by somebody with a 
rather moist hand quite lately.’ He sprinkled the powder 
again. “Here on the other side, you see, is the thumb-mark 
—very good impressions all of them.’ He spoke without 
raising his voice, but Mr. Cupples could perceive that he 
was ablaze with excitement at he stared at the faint gray 
marks. “This one should be the index finger. I need not 
tell a man of your knowledge of the world that the pat- 
tern of it is a single-spiral whorl, with deltas symmetri- 
cally disposed. This, the print of the second finger, is a 
simple loop, with a staple core and fifteen counts. I know 
there are fifteen, because I have just the same two prints 
on this negative, which I have examined in detail. Look!’ 
—he held one of the negatives up to the light of the de- 
clining sun and demonstrated with a pencil point. ‘You 
can see they’re the same. You see the bifurcation of that 
ridge. There it is in the other. You see that little scar near 

114 | 


A HOT SCENT 


the centre. There it is in the other. There are a score of 
ridge-characteristics on which an expert would swear in 
the witness-box that the marks on that bowl and the 
marks I have photographed on this negative were made 
by the same hand” | 

‘And where did you photograph them? What does it 
all mean?’ asked Mr. Cupples, wide-eyed. 

‘I found them on the inside of the left-hand leaf of the 
front window in Mrs. Manderson’s bedroom. As I could 
not bring the window with me, I photographed them, 
sticking a bit of black paper on the other side of the glass 
for the purpose. The bowl comes from Manderson’s room. 
_It is the bowl in which his false teeth were placed at night. 
I could bring that away, so I did.’ 

‘But those cannot be Mabel’s finger-marks.’ 

‘I should think not!’ said Trent with decision. ‘They 
are twice the size of any print Mrs. Manderson could 
make.’ 

“Then they must be her husband’s.’ 

‘Perhaps they are. Now shall we see if we can match 
them once more? I believe we can.’ Whistling faintly, and 
very white in the face, Trent opened another small squat 
bottle containing a dense black powder. ‘Lamp-black,’ he 
explained. ‘Hold a bit of paper in your hand for a second 
or two, and this little chap will show you the pattern of 
your fingers.’ He carefully took up with a pair of tweezers 
one of the leaves cut from his diary, and held it out for 
the other to examine. No marks appeared on the leaf. He 
tilted some of the powder out upon one surface of the 
paper, then, turning it over, upon the other; then shook 
the leaf gently to rid it of the loose powder. He held it out 
to Mr. Cupples in silence. On one side of the paper ap- 
peared unmistakably, clearly printed in black, the same 
two finger-prints that he had already seen on the bowl 


115 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


and on the photographic plate. He took up the bowl and 
compared them. Trent turned the paper over, and on the 
other side was a bold black replica of the thumb-mark 
that was printed gray on the glass in his hand. 

‘Same man, you see,’ Trent said with a short laugh. ‘T 
felt that it must be so, and now I know.’ He walked to 
the window and looked out. ‘Now I know,’ he repeated 
in a low voice, as if to himself. His tone was bitter. Mr. 
Cupples, understanding nothing, stared at his motionless 
back for a few moments. 

‘I am still completely in the dark, he ventured pres- 
ently. ‘I have often heard of this finger-print business, and 
wondered how the police went to work about it. It is of 
extraordinary interest to me, but upon my life I cannot 
see how in this case Manderson’s finger-prints are go- 
ing——’ 

‘I am very sorry, Cupples, Trent broke in upon his 
meditative speech with a swift return to the table. “When 
I began this investigation I meant to take you with me 
every step of the way. You mustn’t think I have any 
doubts about your discretion if I say now that I must hold 
my tongue about the whole thing, at least for a time. I 
will tell you this: I have come upon a fact that looks too 
much like having very painful consequences if it is dis- 
covered by anyone else.’ He looked at the other with a 
hard and darkened face, and struck the table with his 
hand. ‘It is terrible for me here and now. Up to this mo- 
ment I was hoping against hope that I was wrong about 
the fact. I may still be wrong in the surmise that I base 
upon that fact. There is only one way of finding out that 
is open to me, and I must nerve myself to take it.’ He 
smiled suddenly at Mr. Cupples’s face of consternation. 
‘All right—I’m not going to be tragic any more, and [ll 

116 hee 


A HOT SCENT 


tell you all about it when I can. Look here, I’m not half 
through my game with the powder-bottles yet.’ 

He drew one of the defamed chairs to the table and sat 
down to test the broad ivory blade of the paper knife. 
Mr. Cupples, swallowing his amazement, bent forward 
in an attitude of deep interest and handed Trent the bot- 
tle of lamp-black. 


117 


Chapter. 
THE WIFE OF DIVES 
M* Manperson stood at the window of her sitting- 


room at White Gables gazing out upon a wavering 
landscape of fine rain and mist. The weather had broken 
as it seldom does in that part in June. White wreathings 
drifted up the fields from the sullen sea; the sky was an 
unbroken gray deadness shedding pin-point moisture that 
was now and then blown against the panes with a crepi- 
tation of despair. The lady looked out on the dim and 
chilling prospect with a woeful face. It was a bad day for 
a woman bereaved, alone, and without a purpose in life. 

There was a knock, and she called “Come in, drawing 
herself up with an unconscious gesture that always came 
when she realized that the weariness of the world had 
been gaining upon her spirit. Mr. Trent had called, the 
maid said; he apologized for coming at such an early 
hour, but hoped that Mrs. Manderson would see him on 
a matter of urgent importance. Mrs. Manderson would 
see Mr. Trent. She walked to a mirror, looked into the 
olive face she saw reflected there, shook her head at her- 
self with the flicker of a grimace, and turned to ei door 
as Trent was shown in. 

His appearance, she noted, was changed. He had the 
jaded look of the sleepless, anid a new and reserved ex- 
pression, in which her quick sensibilities felt something | 
not propitious, took the place of his half smile of fixed 
good-humour. 

‘May I come to the point at once?’ he said, when she 


118 


THE WIFE OF DIVES 


had given him her hand. “There is a train I ought to catch 
at Bishopsbridge at twelve o’clock, but I cannot go until 
I have settled this thing, which concerns you only, Mrs. 
Manderson. I have been working half the night and think- 
ing the rest; and I know now what I ought to do.’ 

“You look wretchedly tired, she said kindly. “Won’t you 
sit down? This is a very restful chair. Of course it is about 
this terrible business and your work as correspondent. 
Please ask me anything you think I can properly tell you, 
Mr. Trent. I know that you won’t make it worse for me 
than you can help in doing your duty here. If you say you 
must see me about something, I know it must be because, 
as you say, you ought to do it.’ 

‘Mrs. Manderson,’ said Trent, slowly measuring his 
words, ‘I won't make it worse for you than I can help. 
But I am bound to make it bad for you—only between 
ourselves, I hope. As to whether you can properly tell me 
what IJ shall ask you, you will decide that; but I tell you 
this on my word of honour: I shall ask you only as much 
as will decide me whether to publish or to withhold cer- 
tain grave things that I have found out about your hus- 
band’s death, things not suspected by anyone else, nor, I 
think, likely to be so. What I have discovered—what I be- 
lieve that I have practically proved—will be a great shock 
to you in any case. But it may be worse for you than that; 
and if you give me reason to think it would be so, then I 
shall suppress this manuscript,’ he laid a long envelope 
on the small table beside him, ‘and nothing of what it has 
to tell shall ever be printed. It consists, I may tell you, of a 
short private note to my editor, followed by a long dis- 
patch for publication in the Record. Now you may refuse 
to say anything to me. If you do refuse, my duty to my 
employers, as I see it, is to take this up to London with 
me to-day and leave it with my editor to be dealt with at 


119 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


his discretion. My view is, you understand, that I am not 
entitled to suppress it on the strength of a mere possibility 
that presents itself to my imagination. But if I gather 
from you—and I can gather it from no other person— 
that there is substance in that imaginary possibility I speak 
of, then I have only one thing to do as a gentleman and 
as one who—he hesitated for a phrase—‘wishes you well. 
I shall not publish that dispatch of mine. In some direc- 
tions I decline to assist the police. Have you followed me 
so far?’ he asked with a touch of anxiety in his careful 
coldness; for her face, but for its pallor, gave no sign as 
she BASE him, her hands clasped before her, and her 
shoulders drawn back in a pose of rigid calm. She looked 
precisely as'she had looked at the inquest. 

‘I understand quite well,’ said Mrs. Manderson in a low 
voice. She drew a deep breath, and went on: ‘I don’t know 
what dreadful thing you have found out, or what the 
possibility that has occurred to you can be, but it was 
good, it was honourable of you to come to me about it. 
Now will you please tell me?’ 

‘I cannot do that,’ Trent replied. “The secret is my news- 
paper’s, if it is not yours. If I find it is yours, you shall 
have my manuscript to read and destroy. Believe me,’ he 
broke out with something of his old warmth, ‘I detest 
such mystery-making from the bottom of my soul; but 
it is not I who have made this mystery. This is the most 
painful hour of my life, and you make it worse by not 
treating me like a hound. The first thing I ask you to tell 
me, he reverted with an effort to his colourless tone, ‘is 
this: is it-true, as you stated at the inquest, that you had 
no idea at all of the reason why your late husband had 
changed his attitude toward you, and become mistrustful 
and reserved, during the last few months of his life?’ 

Mrs. Manderson’s dark brows lifted and her eyes 


I20 


THE WIFE OF DIVES 


flamed; she quickly rose from her chair. Trent got up at 
the same moment, and took his envelope from the table; 
his manner said that he perceived the interview to be at 
an end. But she held up a hand, and there was colour in 
her cheeks and quick breathing in her voice as she said: 
‘Do you know what you ask, Mr. Trent? You ask me if 
I perjured myself.’ 

‘I do, he answered unmoved; and he added after a 
pause, ‘You knew already that I had not come here to 
preserve the polite fictions, Mrs. Manderson. The theory 
that no reputable person, being on oath, could withhold 
a part of the truth under any circumstances is a polite fic- 
tion.’ He still stood as awaiting dismissal, but she was si- 
lent. She walked to the window, and he stood miserably 
watching the slight movement of her shoulders until it 
subsided. Then with face averted, looking out on the dis- 
mal weather, she spoke at last clearly. 

‘Mr. Trent,’ she said, ‘you inspire confidence in people, 
and I feel that things which I don’t want known or talked 
about are safe with you. And I know you must have a 
very serious reason for doing what you are doing, though 
I don’t know what it is. I suppose it would be assisting 
justice in some way if I told you the truth about what vou 
asked just now. To understand that truth you ought to 
know about what went before—I mean about my mar- 
riage. After all, a good many people could tell you as well 
as I can that it was not . . . a very successful union. I was 
only twenty. I admired i force and courage and cer- 
tainty; he was the only strong man I had ever known. 
But it did not take me long to find out that he cared for 
his business more than for me, and I think I found out 
even sooner that I had been deceiving myself and blind- 
ing myself, promising myself impossible things and wil- 
fully misunderstanding my own feelings, because I was 

121 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


dazzled by the idea of having more money to spend than 
an English girl ever dreams of. I have been despising my- 
self for that for five years. My husband’s feeling for me 

. . well, I cannot speak of that . . . what I want to say 
is that along with it there had always been a belief of his 
that I was the sort of woman to take a great place in so- 
ciety, and that I should throw myself into it with enjoy- 
ment, and become a sort of personage and do him great 
credit—that was his idea; and the idea remained with 
him after other delusions had gone. I was a part of his 
ambition. That was his really bitter disappointment, that 
I failed him as a social success. I think he was too shrewd 
not to have known in his heart that such a man as he was, 
twenty years older than I, with great business responsi- 
bilities that filled every hour of his life, and caring for 
nothing else—he must have felt that there was a risk of 
great unhappiness in marrying the sort of girl I was, 
brought up to music and books and unpractical ideas, al- 
ways enjoying myself in my own way. But he had really 
reckoned on me as a wife who would do the honours of 
his position in the world; and I found I couldn’t.’ 

Mrs. Manderson had talked herself into a more emo- 
tional mood than she had yet shown to Trent. Her words 
flowed freely, and her voice had begun to ring and give 
play to a natural expressiveness that must hitherto have 
been dulled, he thought, by the shock and self-restraint 
of the past few days. Now she turned swiftly from the 
window and faced him as she went on, her beautiful face 
flushed and animated, her eyes gleaming, her hands mov- 
ing in slight emphatic gestures, as she surrendered herself 
to the impulse of giving speech to things long pent up. 

‘The people,’ she said. ‘Oh, those people! Can you im- 
agine what it must be for anyone who has lived in a 
world where there was always creative work in the back- 

122 


THE WIFE OF DIVES 


ground, work with some dignity about it, men and wom- 
en with professions or arts to follow, with ideals and 
things to believe in and quarrel about, some of them 
wealthy, some of them quite poor; can you think what it 
means to step out of that into another world where you 
have to be very rich, shamefully rich, to exist at all— 
where money is the only thing that counts and the first 
thing in everybody’s thoughts—where the men who make 
the millions are so jaded by the work, that sport is the 
only thing they can occupy themselves with when they 
have.any leisure, and the men who don’t have to work 
are even duller than the men who do, and vicious as well; 
and the women live for display and silly amusements and 
silly immoralities; do you know how awful that life is? 
Of course I know there are clever people, and people of 
taste in that set, but they’re swamped and spoiled, and it’s 
the same thing in the end; empty, empty! Oh! I suppose 
I’m exaggerating, and I did make friends and have some 
happy times; but that’s how I feel after it all. The seasons 
in New York and London—how I hated them! And our 
house-parties and cruises in the yacht and the rest—the 
same people, the same emptiness. 

‘And you see, don’t you, that my husband couldn’t have 
an idea of all this. Hzs life was never empty. He did not 
live it in society, and when he was in society he had al- 
ways his business plans and difficulties to occupy his mind. 
He hadn’t a suspicion of what I felt, and I never let him 
know; I couldn’t, it wouldn’t have been fair. I felt I must 
do something to justify myself as his wife, sharing his 
position and fortune; and the only thing I could do was 
to try, and try, to live up to his idea about my social quali- 
ties. . . . I did try. I acted my best. And it became harder 
year by year. . . . I never was what they call a popular 
hostess, how could I be? I was a failure; but I went on 

123 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


trying. . . . I used to steal holidays now and then. I used 
to feel as if I was not doing my part of a bargain—it 
sounds horrid to put it like that, I know, but it was so— 
when I took one of my old school-friends, who couldn't 
afford to travel, away to Italy for a month or two, and we 
went about cheaply all by ourselves, and were quite hap- 
py; or when I went and made a long stay in London with 
some quiet people who had known me all my life, and 
we all lived just as in the old days, when we had to think 
twice about seats at the theatre, and told each other about 
cheap dressmakers. Those and a few other expeditions of 
the same sort were my best times after I was married, and 
they helped me to go through with it the rest of the time. 
But I felt my husband would have hated to know how 
much I enjoyed every hour of those returns to the old life. 

‘And in the end, in spite of everything I could do, he 
came to know. ... He could see through anything, I 
think, once his attention was turned to it. He had always 
been able to see that I was not fulfilling his idea of me 
as a figure in the social world, and I suppose he thought 
it was my misfortune rather than my fault. But the mo- 
ment he began to see, in spite of my pretending, that I 
wasn’t playing my part with any spirit, he knew the whole 
story; he divined how I loathed and was weary of the 
luxury and the brilliancy and the masses of money just 
because of the people who lived among them—who were 
made so by them, I suppose. It happened last year. I don’t 
know just how or when. It may have been suggested to 
him by some woman—for they all understood, of course. 
He said nothing to me, and I think he tried not to change 
in his manner to me at first; but such things hurt—and it 
was working in both of us. I knew that he knew. After 
a time we were just being polite and considerate to each 
other. Before he found me out we had been on a footing 


124 


THE WIFE OF DIVES 


of—how can I express it to youP—of intelligent compan- 
ionship, I might say. We talked without restraint of many 
things of the kind we could agree or disagree about with- 
out its going very deep .. . if you understand. And then 
that came to an end. I felt that the only possible basis of 
our living in each other’s company was going under my 
feet. And at last it was gone. 

‘It had been like that,’ she ended simply, ‘for months 
before he died.’ She sank into the corner of a sofa by the 
window, as though relaxing her body after an effort. For 
a few moments both were silent. Trent was hastily sort- 
ing out a tangle of impressions. He was amazed at the 
frankness of Mrs. Manderson’s story. He was amazed at 
the vigorous expressiveness in her telling of it. In this 
vivid being, carried away by an impulse to speak, talking 
with her whole personality, he had seen the real woman 
in a temper of activity, as he had already seen the real 
woman by chance in a temper of reverie and unguarded 
emotion. In both she was very unlike the pale, self-disci- 
plined creature of majesty that she had been to the world. 
With that amazement of his went something like terror 
of her dark beauty, which excitement kindled into an ap- 
pearance scarcely mortal in his eyes. Incongruously there 
rushed into his mind, occupied as it was with the affair 
of the moment, a little knot of ideas . . . she was unique 
not because of her beauty but because of its being united 
with intensity of nature; in England all the very beautiful 
women were placid, all the fiery women seemed to have 
burnt up the best of their beauty; that was why no beau- 
tiful woman had ever cast this sort of spell on him be- 
fore; when it was a question of wit in women, he had 
preferred the brighter flame to the duller, without much 
regarding the lamp. ‘All this is very disputable,’ said his 
reason; and instinct answered, ‘Yes, except that I am un- 

125 


TRENT S) LAST CASE 


der a spell’; and a deeper instinct cried out, “Away with 
it!” He forced his mind back to her story, and found grow- 
ing swiftly in him an irrepressible conviction. It was all 
very fine; but it would not do. 

‘I feel as if I had led you into saying more than you 
meant to say, or than I wanted to learn,’ he said slowly. 
‘But there is one brutal question which is the whole point 
of my inquiry.’ He braced his frame like one preparing 
for a plunge into cold waters. “Mrs. Manderson, will you 
assure me that your husband’s change toward you had 
nothing to do with John Marlowe?’ 

And what he had dreaded came. ‘Oh!’ she cried with 
a sound of anguish, her face thrown up and open hands 
stretched out as if for pity; and then the hands covered 
the burning face, and she flung herself aside among the 
cushions at her elbow, so that he saw nothing but her 
heavy crown of black hair, and her body moving with 
sobs that stabbed his heart, and a foot turned inward 
gracelessly in an abandonment of misery. Like a tall tower 
suddenly breaking apart she had fallen in ruins, helplessly 
weeping. 

Trent stood up, his face white and calm. With a sense- 
less particularity he placed his envelope exactly in the 
centre of the little polished table. He walked to the door, 
closed it noiselessly as he went out, and in a few minutes 
was tramping through the rain out of sight of White Ga- 
bles, going nowhere, seeing nothing, his soul shaken in 
the fierce effort to kill and trample the raving impulse 
that had seized him in the presence of her shame, that 
clamoured to him to drag himself before her feet, to pray 
for pardon, to pour out words—he knew not what words, 
but he knew that they had been straining at his lips—to 
wreck his self-respect for ever, and hopelessly defeat even 
the crazy purpose that had almost possessed him, by 

126 : 


aa 


THE WIFE OF DIVES 


drowning her wretchedness in disgust, by babbling with 
the tongue of infatuation to a woman with ‘a husband not 
yet buried, to a woman who loved another man. 

Such was the magic of her tears, quickening in a mo- 
ment the thing which, as his heart had known, he must 
not let come to life. For Philip Trent was a young man, 
younger in nature even than his years, and a way of life 
that kept his edge keen and his spirit volcanic had pre- 
pared him very ill for the meeting that comes once in the 
early manhood of most of us, usually—as in his case, he 
told himself harshly—to no purpose but the testing of 
virtue and the power of the will. 


Chapter XI 
HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED 


Y DEAR Mottoy:—This is in case I don’t find you at 
your office. I have found out who killed Mander- 
son, as this dispatch will show. This was my problem; yours 
is to decide what use to make of it. It definitely charges 
an unsuspected person with having a hand in the crime, 
and practically accuses him of being the murderer, so I 
don’t suppose you will publish it before his arrest, and I 
believe it is illegal to do so afterwards until he has been 
tried and found guilty. You may decide to publish it then; 
and you may find it possible to make some use or other 
before then of the facts I have given. This is your affair. 
Meanwhile, will you communicate with Scotland Yard, 
and let them see what I have written? I have done with 
the Manderson mystery, and I wish to God I had never 
touched it. Here follows my dispatch. P.T. 


Marlstone, June 16th. 

I begin this, my third and probably my final dispatch 
to the Record upon the Manderson murder, with conflict- 
ing feelings. I have a strong sense of relief, because in my 
two previous dispatches I was obliged, in the interests of 
justice, to withhold facts ascertained by me which would, 
if published then, have puta certain person upon his guard 
and possibly have led to his escape; for he is a man of 
no common boldness and resource. These facts I shall 
now set forth. But I have, I confess, no liking for the story 
of treachery and perverted cleverness which I have to tell. 


ar 
.é 


HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED. 


It leaves an evil taste in the mouth, a savour of something 
revolting in the deeper puzzle of motive underlying the 
puzzle of the crime itself, which I believe I have solved. 

It will be remembered that in my first dispatch I de- 
scribed the situation as I found it on reaching this place 
early on Tuesday morning. I told how the body was 
found, and in what state; dwelt upon the complete mys- 
tery surrounding the crime, and mentioned one or two 
local theories about it; gave some account of the dead 
man’s domestic surroundings; and furnished a somewhat 
detailed description of his movements on the evening be- 
fore his death. I gave, too,.a little fact which may or may 
not have seemed irrelevant: that a quantity of whisky 
much larger than Manderson habitually drank at night 
had disappeared from his private decanter since the last 
time he was seen alive. On the following day, the day af- 
ter the inquest, I wired little more than an abstract of the 
proceedings in the coroner’s court, of which a verbatim 
report was made at my request by other representatives of 
the Record. That day is not yet over as I write these lines; 
and I have now completed an investigation which has led 
me directly to the man who must be called upon to clear 
himself of the guilt of the death of Manderson. 

Apart from the central mystery of Manderson’s having 
arisen long before his usual hour to go out and meet his 
death, there were two minor points of oddity about this 
affair which, I suppose, must have occurred to thousands 
of those who have read the accounts in the newspapers: 
points apparent from the very beginning. The first of 
these was that, whereas the body was found at a spot not 
thirty yards from the house, all the people of the house 
declared that they had heard no cry or other noise in the 
night. Manderson had not been gagged; the marks on his 
wrists pointed to a struggle with his assailant; and there 


129 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


had been at least one pistol-shot. (I say at least one, be- 
cause it is the fact that in murders with firearms, espe- 
cially if there has been a struggle, the criminal commonly 
misses his victim at least once.) The odd fact seemed all 
the more odd to me when I learned that Martin the but- 
ler was a bad sleeper, very keen of hearing, and that his 
bedroom, with the window open, faced almost directly 
toward the shed by which the body was found. 

The second odd little fact that was apparent from the 
outset was Manderson’s leaving his dental plate by the 
bedside. It appeared that he had risen and dressed himself 
fully, down to his necktie and watch and chain, and had 
gone out of doors without remembering to put in this 
plate, which he had carried in his mouth every day for 
years, and which contained all the visible teeth of the up- 
per jaw. It had evidently not been a case of frantic hurry; 
and even if it had been, he would have been more likely 
to forget almost anything than this denture. Anyone who 
wears such a removable plate will agree that the putting 
it in on rising is a matter of second nature. Speaking as 
well as eating, to say nothing of appearances, depends up- 
on it. 

Neither of these queer details, however, seemed to lead 
to anything at the moment. They only awakened in me a 
suspicion of something lurking in the shadows, something 
that lent more mystery to the already mysterious question 
how and why and through whom Manderson met his 
end. 

With this much of preamble I come at once to the dis- 
covery which, in the first few hours of my investigation, 
set me upon the path which so much ingenuity had been 
directed to concealing. 

I have already described Manderson’s bedroom, the rig- 
orous simplicity of its furnishing, contrasted so strangely 


130 


HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED 


with the multitude of clothes and shoes, and the manner of 
its communication with Mrs. Manderson’s room. On the 
upper of the two long shelves on which the shoes were 
ranged I found, where I had been told I should find them, 
the pair of patent leather shoes which Manderson had worn 
on the evening before his death. I had glanced over the 
row, not with any idea of their giving me a clue, but 
merely because it happens that I am a judge of shoes, and 
all these shoes were of the very best workmanship. But 
my attention was at once caught by a little peculiarity in 
this particular pair. They were the lightest kind of lace-up 
dress shoes, very thin in the sole, without toe-caps, and 
beautifully made, like all the rest. These shoes were old 
and well worn; but being carefully polished, and fitted, 
as all the shoes were, upon their trees, they looked neat 
enough. What caught my eye was a slight splitting of the 
leather in that part of the upper known as the vamp—a 
splitting at the point where the two laced parts of the 
shoe rise from the upper. It is at this point that the strain 
comes when a tight shoe of this sort is forced upon the 
foot, and it is usually guarded with a strong stitching 
across the bottom of the opening. In both the shoes I was 
examining this stitching had parted, and the leather be- 
_ low had given way. The splitting was a tiny affair in each 
case, not an eighth of an inch long, and the torn edges 
having come together again on the removal of the strain, 
there was nothing that a person who was not something 
of a connoisseur of shoe-leather would have noticed. Even 
less noticeable, and indeed not to be seen at all unless one 
were looking for it, was a slight straining of the stitches 
uniting the upper to the sole. At the toe and on the outer 
side of each shoe this stitching had been dragged until it 
was visible on a close inspection of the join. 

These indications, of course, could mean only one thing 

131 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


—the shoes had been worn by someone for whom they 
were too small. 

Now it was clear at a glance that Manderson was al- 
ways thoroughly well shod, and careful, perhaps a little 
vain, of his small and narrow feet. Not one of the other 
shoes in the collection, as I soon ascertained, bore simi- 
lar marks; they had not belonged to a man who squeezed 
himself into tight shoe-leather. Someone who was not 
Manderson had worn these shoes, and worn them recent- 
ly; the edges of the tears were quite fresh. 

The possibility of someone having worn them since 
Manderson’s death was not worth considering; the body 
had only been found about twenty-six hours when I was 
examining the shoes; besides, why should anyone wear 
them? The possibility of someone having borrowed Man- 
derson’s shoes and spoiled them for him while he was 
alive seemed about as negligible. With others to choose 
from he would not have worn these. Besides, the only men 
in the place were the butler and the two secretaries. But I 
do not say that I gave those possibilities even as much con- 
sideration as they deserved, for my thoughts were run- 
ning away with me, and I have always found it good 
policy, in cases of this sort, to let them have their heads. 
Ever since I had got out of the train at Marlstone early 
that morning I had been steeped in details of the Man- 
derson affair; the thing had not once been out of my 
head. Suddenly the moment had come when the demon 
wakes and begins to range. 

Let me put it less fancifully. After all, it is a detail of 
psychology familiar enough to all whose business or in- 
clination brings them in contact with difficult affairs of 
any kind. Swiftly and spontaneously, when chance or ef- 
fort puts one in possession of the key-fact in any system 
of baffling circumstances, one’s ideas seem to rush to group 


132 


HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED 


themselves anew in relation to that fact, so that they are 
suddenly rearranged almost before one has consciously 
grasped the significance of the key-fact itself. In the pres- 
ent instance, my brain had scarcely formulated within it- 
self the thought, ‘Somebody who was not Manderson has 
been wearing these shoes,’ when there flew into my mind 
a flock of ideas, all of the same character and all bearing 
upon this new notion. It was unheard-of for Manderson 
to drink much whisky at night. It was very unlike him to 
be untidily dressed, as the body was when found—the 
cuffs dragged up inside the sleeves, the shoes unevenly 
laced; very unlike him not to wash when he rose, and to 
put on last night’s evening shirt and collar and under- 
clothing; very unlike him to have his watch in the waist- 
coat pocket that was not lined with leather for its recep- 
tion. (In my first dispatch I mentioned all these points, 
but neither I nor anyone else saw anything significant in 
them when examining the body.) It was very strange, in 
the existing domestic situation, that Manderson should be 
communicative to his wife about his doings, especially at 
the time of his going to bed, when he seldom spoke to her 
at all. It was extraordinary that Manderson should leave 
his bedroom without his false teeth. 

All these thoughts, as I say, came flocking into my mind 
together, drawn from various parts of my memory of the 
morning’s inquiries and observations. They had all pre- 
sented themselves, in far less time than it takes to read 
them as set down here, as I was turning over the shoes, 
confirming my own certainty on the main point. And yet 
when I confronted the definite idea that had sprung up 
suddenly and unsupported before me—‘J¢ was not Man- 
derson who was in the house that night’—it seemed a 
stark absurdity at the first formulating. It was certainly 
Manderson who had dined at the house and gone out 


133 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


with Marlowe in the car. People had seen him at close 
quarters. But was it he who returned at ten? That ques- 
tion too seemed absurd enough. But I could not set it 
aside. It seemed to me as if a faint light was beginning to 
creep over the whole expanse of my mind, as it does over 
land at dawn, and that presently the sun would be rising. 
I set myself to think over, one by one, the points that had 
just occurred to me, so as to make out, if possible, why 
any man masquerading as Manderson should have done 
these things that Manderson would not have done. 

I had not to cast about very long for the motive a man 
might have in forcing his feet into Manderson’s narrow 
shoes. The examination of foot-marks is very well under- 
stood by the police. But not only was the man concerned 
to leave no foot-marks of his own: he was concerned to 
leave Manderson’s, if any; his whole plan, if my guess 
was right, must have been directed to producing the belief 
that Manderson was in the place that night. Moreover, his 
plan did not turn upon leaving foot-marks. He meant to 
leave the shoes themselves, and he did so. The maidserv- 
ant had found them outside the bedroom door, as Mander- 
son always left his shoes, and had polished them, replac- 
ing them on the shoe-shelves later in the morning, after 
the body had been found. 

When I came to consider in this new light the leaving 
of the false teeth, an explanation of what had seemed the 
maddest part of the affair broke upon me at once. A den- 
tal plate is not inseparable from its owner. If my guess 
was right, the unknown had brought the denture to the 
house with him, and left it in the bedroom, with the same 
object as he had in leaving the shoes: to make it impossi- 
ble that anyone should doubt that Manderson had been 
in the house and had gone to bed there. This, of course, 


134 


HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED 


led me to the inference that Manderson was dead before 
the false Manderson came to the house; and other things 
confirmed this. 

For instance, the clothing, to which I now turned in my 
review of the position. If my guess was right, the un- 
known in Manderson’s shoes had certainly had possession 
of Manderson’s trousers, waistcoat, and shooting jacket. 
They were there before my eyes in the bedroom; and 
Martin had seen the jacket—which nobody could have 
mistaken—upon the man who sat at the telephone in the 
library. It was now quite plain (if my guess was right) 
that this unmistakable garment was a cardinal feature 
of the unknown’s plan. He knew that Martin would take 
him for Manderson at the first glance. 

And there my thinking was interrupted by the realiza- 
tion of a thing that had escaped me before. So strong had 
been the influence of the unquestioned assumption that it 
was Manderson who was present that night, that neither 
I nor, as far as I know, anyone else had noted the point. 
Martin had not seen the man’s face; nor had Mrs. Man- 
derson. 

Mrs. Manderson (judging by her evidence at the in- 
quest, of which, as I have said, I had a full report made 
by the Record stenographers in court) had not seen the 
man at all. She hardly could have done, as I shall show 
presently. She had merely spoken with him as she lay 
half asleep, resuming a conversation which she had had 
with her living husband about an hour before. Martin, I 
perceived, could only have seen the man’s back, as he sat 
crouching over the telephone; no doubt a characteristic 
pose was imitated there. And the man had worn his hat, 
Manderson’s broad-brimmed hat! There is too much char- 
acter in the back of a head and neck. The unknown, in 


135 


TRENT ’S LAST CASE 


fact, supposing him to have been of about Manderson’s 
build, had had no need for any disguise, apart from the 
jacket and the hat and his powers of mimicry. 

I paused there to contemplate the coolness and ingenu- 
ity of the man. The thing, I now began to see, was so safe 
and easy, provided that his mimicry was good enough, 
and that his nerve held. These two points assured, only 
some wholly unlikely accident could unmask him. 

To come back to my puzzling out of the matter as I sat 
in the dead man’s bedroom with the tell-tale shoes before 
me. The reason for the entrance by the window instead 
of by the front door will already have occurred to anyone 
reading this. Entering by the door, the man would almost 
certainly have been heard by the sharp-eared Martin in 
his pantry just across the hall; he might have met him 
face to face. 

Then there was the problem of the whisky. I had not 
attached much importance to it; whisky will sometimes 
vanish in very queer ways in a household of eight or nine 
persons; but it had seemed strange that it should go in 
that way on that evening. Martin had been plainly quite 
dumbfounded by the fact. It seemed to me now that 
many a man—fresh, as this man in all likelihood was, 
from a bloody business, from the unclothing of a corpse, 
and with a desperate part still to play—would turn to that 
decanter as to a friend. No doubt he had a drink before 
sending for Martin; after making that trick with ease and 
success, he probably drank more. 

But he had known when to stop. The worst part of the 
enterprise was before him: the business—clearly of such 
vital importance to him, for whatever reason—of shutting 
himself in Manderson’s room and preparing a body of 
convincing evidence of its having been occupied by Man- 
derson; and this with the risk—very slight, as no doubt 


136 


HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED 


he understood, but how unnerving!—of the woman on 
the other side of the half-open door awaking and some- 
how discovering him. True, if he kept out of her limited 
field of vision from the bed, she could only see him by 
getting up and going to the door. I found that to a person 
lying in her bed, which stood with its head to the wall 
a little beyond the door, nothing was visible through the 
doorway but one of the cupboards by Manderson’s bed- 
head. Moreover, since this man knew the ways of the 
household, he would think it most likely that Mrs. Man- 
derson was asleep. Another point with him, I guessed, 
might have been the estrangement between the husband 
and wife, which they had tried to cloak by keeping up, 
among other things, their usual practice of sleeping in 
connected rooms, but which was well known to all who 
had anything to do with them. He would hope from this 
that if Mrs. Manderson heard him, she would take no no- 
tice of the supposed presence of her husband. 

So, pursuing my hypothesis, I followed the unknown 
up to the bedroom, and saw him setting about his work. 
And it was with a catch in my own breath that I thought 
of the hideous shock with which he must have heard 
the sound of all others he was dreading most: the drowsy 
voice from the adjoining room. 

What Mrs. Manderson actually said, she was unable to 
cecollect at the inquest. She thinks she asked her sup- 
posed husband whether he had had a good run in the car. 
And now what does the unknown do? Here, I think, we 
come to a supremely significant point. Not only does he 
_ —standing rigid there, as I picture him, before the dress- 
ing-table, listening to the sound of his own leaping heart 
—not only does he answer the lady in the voice of Man- 
derson; he volunteers an explanatory statement. He tells 
her that he has, on a sudden inspiration, sent Marlowe 


137 


TRENT S$ LAST CASE 


in the car to Southampton; that he had sent him to bring 
back some important information from a man leaving for 
Paris by the steamboat that morning. Why these details 
from a man who had long been uncommunicative to his 
wife, and that upon a point scarcely likely to interest her? 
Why these details about Marlowe? 

Having taken my story so far, I now put forward the 
following definite propositions: that between a time some- 
where about ten, when the car started, and a time some- 
where about eleven, Manderson was shot—probably at a 
considerable distance from the house, as no shot was 
heard; that the body was brought back, left by the shed, 
and stripped of its outer clothing; that at some time round 
about eleven o'clock a man who was not Manderson, 
wearing Manderson’s shoes, hat, and jacket, entered the 
library by the garden window; that he had with him 
Manderson’s black trousers, waistcoat, and motor-coat, the 
denture taken from Manderson’s mouth, and the weapon: 
with which he had been murdered; that he concealed 
these, rang the bell for the butler, and sat down at the 
telephone with his hat on and his back to the door; that 
he was occupied with the telephone all the time Martin 
was in the room; that on going up to the bedroom floor 
he quietly entered Marlowe’s room and placed the revol- 
ver with which the crime had been committed—Mar- 
lowe’s revolver—in the case on the mantelpiece from 
which it had been taken; and that he then went to Man- 
derson’s room, placed Manderson’s shoes outside the door, 
threw Manderson’s garments on a chair, placed the den- 
ture in the bowl by the bedside, and selected a suit of 
clothes, a pair of shoes, and a tie from those in the bed- 
room. ae 

Here I will pause in my statement of this man’s pro- 


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HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED 


ceedings to go into a question for which the way is now 
sufficiently prepared :— 

Who was the false Manderson? 

Reviewing what was known to me, or might almost 
with certainty be surmised, about that person, I set down 
the following five conclusions: 

(1) He had been in close relations with the dead man. 
In his acting before Martin and his speaking to Mrs. Man- 
derson he had made no mistake. 

(2) He was of a build not unlike Manderson’s, espe- 
cially as to height and breadth of shoulder, which mainly 
determine the character of the back of a seated figure 
when the head is concealed and the body loosely clothed. 
But his feet were larger, though not greatly larger, than 
Manderson’s. 

(3) He had considerable aptitude for mimicry and act- 
ing—probably some experience too. 

(4) He had a minute acquaintance with the ways of 
the Manderson household. 

(5) He was under a vital necessity of creating the be- 
lief that Manderson was alive and in that house until 
some time after midnight on the Sunday night. 
~ So much I took as either certain or next door to it. 
It was as far as I could see. And it was far enough. 

I proceed to give, in an order corresponding with the 
numbered paragraphs above, such relevant facts as I was 
able to obtain about Mr. John Marlowe, from himself and 
other sources :— 

(1) He had been Mr. Manderson’s private secretary, 
upon a footing of great intimacy, for nearly four years. 

(2) The two men were nearly of the same height, 
about five feet eleven inches; both were powerfully built 
and heavy in the shoulder. Marlowe, who was the young- 
er by some twenty years, was rather slighter about the 


139 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


body, though Manderson was a man in good physical con- 
dition. Marlowe’s shoes (of which I examined several 
pairs) were roughly about one shoemaker’s size longer 
and broader than Manderson’s. 

(3) In the afternoon of the first day of my investiga- 
tion, after arriving at the results already detailed, I sent a 
telegram to a personal friend, a Fellow of a college at 
Oxford, whom I knew to be interested in theatrical mat- 
ters, in these terms: 


Please wire John Marlowe’s record in connection with act- 
ing at Oxford some time past decade very urgent and confi- 
dential. 


My friend replied in the following telegram, which 
reached me next morning (the morning of the inquest) :— 


Marlowe was member O.U.D.S. for three years and presi- 
dent 19— played Bardolph Cleon and Mercutio excelled in 
character acting and imitations in great demand at smokers 
was hero of some historic hoaxes. 


I had been led to send the telegram which brought this 
very helpful answer by seeing on the mantel-shelf in Mar- 
lowe’s bedroom a photograph of himself and two others 
in the costume of Falstaff’s three followers, with an in- 
scription from The Merry Wives, and by noting that it 
bore the imprint of an Oxford firm of photographers. 

(4) During his connection with Manderson, Marlowe 
had lived as one of the family. No other person, apart 
from the servants, had his opportunities for knowing the 
domestic life of the Mandersons in detail. 

(5) I ascertained beyond doubt that Marlowe arrived 
at a hotel in Southampton on the Monday morning at 
6.30, and there proceeded to carry out the commission 
which, according to his story, and according to the state- 

40 


. 


HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED 


ment made to Mrs. Manderson in the bedroom by the 
false Manderson, had been entrusted to him by his em- 
ployer. He had then returned in the car to Marlstone, 
_ where he had shown great amazement and horror at the 
news of the murder. 


These, I say, are the relevant facts about Marlowe. We 
must now examine fact number 5 (as set out above) in 
connection with conclusion number 5 about the false 
Manderson. 

I would first draw attention to one important fact. The 
only person who professed to have heard Manderson men- 
tion Southampton at all before he started in the car was 
Marlowe. His story—confirmed to some extent by what 
the butler overheard—was that the journey was all ar- 
ranged in a private talk before they set out, and he could 
not say, when I put the question to him, why Manderson 
should have concealed his intentions by giving out that 
he was going with Marlowe for a moonlight drive. This 
point, however, attracted no attention. Marlowe had an 
absolutely air-tight alibi in his presence at Southampton 
by 6.30; nobody thought of him in connection with a 
murder which must have been committed after 12.30— 
the hour at which Martin the butler had gone to bed. But 
it was the Manderson who came back from the drive who 
went out of his way to mention Southampton openly to 
two persons. He even went so far as to ring up a hotel at 
Southampton and ask questions which bore out Marlowe's 
story of his errand. This was the call he was busy with 
when Martin was in the library. 

Now let us consider the alibi. If Manderson was in the 
house that night, and if he did not leave it until some 
time after 12.30, Marlowe could not by any possibility 


I4I 


TRENT’ S LAST CASE 


have had a direct hand in the murder. It is a question of 
the distance between Marlstone and Southampton. If he 
had left Marlstone in the car at the hour when he is sup- 
posed to have done so—between 10 and 10.30—with a 
message from Manderson, the run would be quite an easy 
one to do in the time. But it would be physically impossi- 
ble for the car—a 15 h.p. four-cylinder Northumberland, 
an average medium-power car—to get to Southampton by 
half-past six unless it left Marlstone by midnight at latest. 
Motorists who will examine the road-map and make the 
calculations required, as I did in Manderson’s library that 
day, will agree that on the facts as they appeared there 
was absolutely no case against Marlowe. 

But even if they were not as they appeared; if Mander- 
son was dead by eleven o'clock, and if at about that time 
Marlowe impersonated him at White Gables; if- Marlowe 
retired to Manderson’s bedroom—how can all this be rec- 
onciled with his appearance next morning at Southamp- 
ton? He had to get out of the house, unseen and unheard, 
and away in the car by midnight. And Martin, the sharp- 
eared Martin, was sitting up until 12.30 in his pantry, with 
the door open, listening for the telephone bell. Practically 
he was standing sentry over the foot of the staircase, the 
only staircase leading down from the bedroom floor. 

With this difficulty we arrive at the last and crucial 
phase of my investigation. Having the foregoing points 
clearly in mind, I spent the rest of the day before the in- 
quest in talking to various persons and in going over my 
story, testing it link by link. I could only find the one 
weakness which seemed to be involved in Martin’s sitting 
up until 12.30; and since his having been instructed to do 
so was certainly a part of the plan, meant to clinch the 
alibi for Marlowe, I knew there must be an explanation 
somewhere. If I could not find that explanation, my the- 

142 


HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED 


ory was valueless. I must be able to show that at the time 
Martin went up to bed the man who had shut himself in 
Manderson’s bedroom might have been many miles away 
on the road to Southampton. 

I had, however, a pretty good idea already—as perhaps 
the reader of these lines has by this time, if I have made 
myself clear—of how the escape of the false Manderson 
before midnight had been contrived. But I did not want 
what I was now about to do to be known. If I had chanced 
to be discovered at work, there would have been no con- 
cealing the direction of my suspicions. I resolved not to 
test them on this point until the next day, during the 
opening proceedings at the inquest. This was to be held, I 
knew, at the hotel, and I reckoned upon having White 
Gables to myself so far as the principal inmates were con- 
cerned. 

So in fact it happened. By the time the proceedings at 
the hotel had been begun I was hard at work at White 
Gables. I had a camera with me. I made search, on prin- 
ciples well known to and commonly practised by the po- 
lice, and often enough by myself, for certain indications. 
Without describing my search, I may say at once that I 
found and was able to photograph two fresh finger-prints, 
_ very large and distinct, on the polished front of the right- 
hand top drawer of the chest of drawers in Manderson’s 
bedroom; five more (among a n-mber of smaller and less 
recent impressions made by other hands) on the glasses 
of the French window in Mrs. Manderson’s room, a win- 
dow which always stood open at night with a curtain be- 
fore it; and three more upon the glass bowl in which 
Manderson’s dental plate had been found lying. 

I took the bowl with me from White Gables. I took 
also a few articles which I selected from Marlowe’s bed- 
room, as bearing the most distinct of the innumerable 


143 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


finger-prints which are always to be found upen toilet 
articles in daily use. I already had in my possession, made 
upon leaves cut from my pocket diary, some excellent 
finger-prints of Marlowe’s which he had made in my 
presence without knowing it. I had shown him the leaves, 
asking if he recognized them; and the few seconds dur- 
ing which he had held them in his fingers had sufficed 
to leave impressions which I was afterwards able to bring 
out. 

By six o'clock in the evening, two hours after the jury 
had brought in their verdict against a person or persons 
unknown, I had completed my work, and was in a posi- 
tion to state that two of the five large prints made on the 
window-glasses, and the three on the bowl, were made by 
the left hand of Marlowe; that the remaining three on the 
window and the two on the drawer were made by his 
right hand. 

By eight o'clock I had made at the establieherieee of ie 
H. T. Copper, photographer, of Bishopsbridge, and with 
his assistance, a dozen enlarged prints of the finger-marks 
of Marlowe, clearly showing the identity of those which 
he unknowingly made in my presence and those left upon 
articles in his bedroom, and those found by me as I have 
described, and thus establishing the facts that Marlowe 
was recently in Manderson’s bedroom, where he had in 
the ordinary way no business, and in Mrs. Manderson’s 
room, where he had still less. I hope it may be possible 
to reproduce these prints for publication with this dis- 
patch. 

At nine o’clock I was back in my room at the hotel and 
sitting down to begin this manuscript. I had my story 
complete. 

I bring it to a close by advancing these further proposi- 
tions: that on the night of the murder the impersonator 


144 


HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED 


of Manderson, being in Manderson’s bedroom, told Mrs. 
Manderson, as he had already told Martin, that Marlowe 
was at that moment on his way to Southampton; that 
having made his dispositions in the room, he switched off 
the light, and lay in the bed in his clothes; that he waited 
until he was assured that Mrs. Manderson was asleep; 
that he then arose and stealthily crossed Mrs. Mander- 
son’s bedroom in his stocking feet, having under his arm 
the bundle of clothing and shoes for the body; that he 
stepped behind the curtain, pushing the doors of a win- 
dow a little further open with his hands, strode over the 
iron railing of the balcony, and let himself down until 
only a drop of a few feet separated him from the soft turf 
of the lawn. 

All this might very well have been accomplished within 
half-an-hour of his entering Manderson’s bedroom, which, 
according to Martin, he did at about half-past eleven. 

What followed your readers and the authorities may 
conjecture for themselves. The corpse was found next 
morning clothed—rather untidily. Marlowe in the car ap- 
peared at Southampton by half-past six. 


I bring this manuscript to an end in my sitting-room 
at the hotel at Marlstone. It is four o'clock in the morning. 
I leave for London by the noon train from Bishopsbridge, 
and immediately after arriving I shall place these pages 
in your hands. I ask you to communicate the substance 
of them to the Criminal Investigation Department. 

Puitip TRENT. 


145 


Chapter XII 
EVIL DAYS 


‘y am returning the cheque you sent for what I did on 
I the Manderson case,’ Trent wrote to Sir James Mol- 
loy from Munich, whither he had gone immediately after 
handing in at the Record office a brief dispatch bringing 
his work on the case to an unexciting close. “What I sent 
you wasn’t worth one-tenth of the amount; but I should 
have no scruple about pocketing it if I hadn’t taken a 
fancy—never mind why—not to touch any money at all 
for this business. I should like you, if there is no objection, 
to pay for the stuff at your ordinary space-rate, and hand 
the money to some charity which does not devote itself 
to bullying people, if you know of any such. I have come 
to this place to see some old friends and arrange my ideas, 
and the idea that comes out uppermost is that for a lit- 
tle while I want some employment with activity in it. I 
find I can’t paint at all: I couldn’t paint a fence. Will you 
try me as your Own Correspondent somewhere? If you 
can find me a good adventure I will send you good ac- 
counts. After that I could settle down and work.’ 

Sir James sent him instructions by telegram to proceed 
at once to Kurland and Livonia, where Citizen Browning 
was abroad again, and town and countryside blazed in 
revolt. It was a roving commission, and for two months 
Trent followed his luck. It served him not less well than 
usual. He was the only correspondent who saw General 
Dragilew killed in the street at Volmar by a girl of eight- 
een. He saw burnings, lynchings, fusillades, hangings; 

146 | 


EVIL DAYS 


each day his soul sickened afresh at the imbecilities born 
of misrule. Many nights he lay down in danger. Many 
days he went fasting. But there was never an evening or 
a morning when he did not see the face of the woman 
whom he hopelessly loved. 

He discovered in himself an unhappy pride at the lasting 
force of this infatuation. It interested him as a phenome- 
non; it amazed and enlightened him. Such a thing had 
not visited him before. It confirmed so much that he had 
found dubious in the recorded experience of men. 

It was not that, at thirty-two, he could pretend to ig- 
norance of this world of emotion. About his knowledge 
let it be enough to say that what he had learned had come 
unpursued and unpurchased, and was without intolerable 
memories; broken to the realities of sex, he was still trou- 
bled by its inscrutable history. He went through life full 
of a strange respect for certain feminine weakness and a 
very simple terror of certain feminine strength. He had 
held a rather lukewarm faith that something remained in 
him to be called forth, and that the voice that should call 
would be heard in its own time, if ever, and not through 
any seeking. 

But he had not thought of the possibility that, if this 
‘proved true some day, the truth might come in a sinister 
shape. The two things that had taken him utterly by sur- 
prise in the matter of his feeling towards Mabel Mander- 
son were the insane suddenness of its uprising in full 
strength and its extravagant hopelessness. Before it came, 
he had been much disposed to laugh at the permanence 
of unrequited passion as a generous boyish delusion. He 
knew now that he had been wrong, and he was living 
bitterly in the knowledge. 

Before the eye of his fancy the woman always came 
just as she was when he had first had sight of her, with 


147 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


the gesture which he had surprised as he walked past un- 
seen on the edge of the cliff; that great gesture of pas- 
sionate joy in her new liberty which had told him more 
plainly than speech that her widowhood was a release 
from torment, and had confirmed with terrible force 
the suspicion, active in his mind before, that it was her 
passport to happiness with a man whom she loved. He 
could not with certainty name to himself the moment 
when he had first suspected that it might be so. The seed 
of the thought must have been sown, he believed, at his 
first meeting with Marlowe; his mind would have noted 
automatically that such evident strength and grace, with 
the sort of looks and manners that the tall young man 
possessed, might go far with any woman of unfixed af- 
fections. And the connection of this with what Mr. Cup- 
ples had told him of the Mandersons’ married life must 
have formed itself in the unconscious depths’ of his mind. 
Certainly it had presented itself as an already established 
thing when he began, after satisfying himself of the iden- 
tity of the murderer, to cast about for the motive of the 
crime. Motive, motive! How desperately he had sought 
for another, turning his back upon that grim thought, 
that Marlowe—obsessed by passion like himself, and privy 
perhaps to maddening truths about the wife’s unhappi- 
ness—had taken a leaf, the guiltiest, from the book of 
Bothwell. But in all his investigations at the time, in all 
his broodings on the matter afterwards, he had been able 
to discover nothing that could prompt Marlowe to such a 
deed—nothing but that temptation, the whole strength of 
which he could not know, but which if it had existed 
must have pressed urgently upon a bold spirit in which 
scruple had been somehow paralyzed. If he could trust 
his senses at all, the young man was neither insane nor 


148 


EVIL DAYS 


by nature evil. But that could not clear him. Murder for 
a woman’s sake, he thought, was not a rare crime, Heaven 
knew! If the modern feebleness of impulse in the com- 
fortable classes, and their respect for the modern appara- 
tus of detection, had made it rare among them, it was yet 
far from impossible. It only needed a man of equal dar- 
ing and intelligence, his soul drugged with the vapours 
of an intoxicating intrigue, to plan and perform such a 
deed. 

A thousand times, with a heart full of anguish, he had 
sought to reason away the dread that Mabel Manderson 
had known too much of what had been intended against 
her husband’s life. That she knew all the truth after the 
thing was done he could not doubt; her unforgettable 
collapse in his presence when the question about Marlowe 
was suddenly and bluntly put, had swept away his last 
hope that there was no love between the pair, and had 
seemed to him, moreover, to speak of dread of discovery. 
In any case, she knew the truth after reading what he had 
left with her; and it was certain that no public suspicion » 
had been cast upon Marlowe since. She had destroyed his 
manuscript, then, and taken him at his word to keep the 
secret that threatened her lover’s life. 

* But it was the monstrous thought that she might have 
known murder was brewing, and guiltily kept silence, 
that haunted Trent’s mind. She might have suspected, 
have guessed something; was it conceivable that she was 
aware of the whole plot, that she connived? He could 
never forget that his first suspicion of Marlowe’s motive 
in the crime had been roused by the fact that his escape 
was made through the lady’s room. At that time, when 
he had not yet seen her, he had been ready enough to en- 
tertain the idea of her equal guilt and her co-operation. 


149 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


He had figured to himself some passionate hystérique, 
merciless as a cat in her hate and her love, a zealous abet- 
tor, perhaps even the ruling spirit in the crime. 

Then he had seen her, had spoken with her, had helped 
her in her weakness; and such suspicions, since their first 
meeting, had seemed the vilest of infamy. He had seen 
her eyes and her mouth; he had breathed the woman’s 
atmosphere. Trent was one of those who fancy they can 
scent true wickedness in the air. In her presence he had 
felt an inward certainty of her ultimate goodness of heart; 
and it was nothing against this that she had abandoned 
herself a moment, that day on the cliff, to the sentiment 
of relief at the ending of her bondage, of her years of 
starved sympathy and unquickened motherhood. That she 
had turned to Marlowe in her destitution he believed; 
that she had any knowledge of his deadly Puhr he did 
not believe. 

And yet, morning and evening the sickening doubts re- 
turned, and he recalled again that it was almost in her 
presence that Marlowe had made his preparations in the 
bedroom of the murdered man, that it was by the win- 
’ dow of her own chamber that he had escaped from the 
house. Had he forgotten his cunning and taken the risk 
of telling her then? Or had he, as Trent thought more 
likely, still played his part with her then, and stolen off 
while she slept? He did not think she had known of the 
masquerade when she gave evidence at the inquest; it 
read like honest evidence. Or—the question would never 
be silenced, though he scorned it—had she lain expecting 
the footsteps in the room and the whisper that should tell 
her that it was done? Among the foul possibilities of hu- 
man nature, was it possible that black ruthlessness and 
black deceit as well were hidden behind that good and 
straight and gentle seeming? 


150 


EVIL DAYS 


These thoughts would scarcely leave him when he was 
alone. 


Trent served Sir James well, earning his pay, for six 
months, and then returned to Paris, where he went to 
work again with a better heart. His powers had returned 
to him, and he began to live more happily than he had 
expected among a tribe of strangely assorted friends, 
French, English, and American, artists, poets, journalists, 
policemen, hotel-keepers, soldiers, lawyers, business men, 
and others. His old faculty of sympathetic interest in his 
fellows won for him, just as in his student days, privileges 
seldom extended to the Briton. He enjoyed again the rare 
experience of being taken into the bosom of a French- 
man’s family. He was admitted to the momentous confi- 
dence of les jeunes, and found them as sure that they had 
surprised the secrets of art and life as the departed jeunes 
of ten years before had been. 

The bosom of the Frenchman’s family was the same as 
those he had known in the past, even to the patterns of 
the wall-paper and movables. But the jeunes, he perceived 
with regret, were totally different from their forerunners. 
They were much more shallow and puerile, much less 
really clever. The secrets they wrested from the Universe 
were not such important and interesting secrets as had 
been wrested by the old jeunes. This he believed and de- 
plored until one day he found himself seated at a restau- 
rant next to a too well-fed man whom, in spite of the rav- 
ages of comfortable living, he recognized as one of the 
jeunes of his own period. This one had been wont to de- 
scribe himself and three or four others as the Hermits of 
the New Parnassus. He and his school had talked outside 
cafés and elsewhere more than solitaries do as a rule; but 


I51I 


TRENT’ S LAST CASE 


then, rules were what they had vowed themselves to de- 
stroy. They proclaimed that verse, in particular, was free. 
The Hermit of the New Parnassus was now in the Min- 
istry of the Interior, and already decorated: he expressed 
to Trent the opinion that what France needed most was 
a hand of iron. He was able to quote the exact price paid 
for certain betrayals of the country, of which Trent had 
not previously heard. 

Thus he was brought to make the old discovery that it 
was he who had changed, like his friend of the Adminis- 
tration, and that les jeunes were still the same. Yet he 
found it hard to say what precisely he had lost that so 
greatly mattered; unless indeed it were so simple a thing 
as his high spirits. 

One morning in June, as he descended the slope of the 
Rue des Martyrs, he saw approaching a figure that he re- 
membered. He glanced quickly round, for the thought 
of meeting Mr. Bunner again was unacceptable. For some 
time he had recognized that his wound was healing un- 
der the spell of creative work; he thought less often of the 
woman he loved, and with less pain. He would not have 
the memory of those three days reopened. 

But the straight and narrow thoroughfare offered no 
refuge, and the American saw him almost at once. 

His unforced geniality made Trent ashamed, for he had 
liked the man. They sat long over a meal, and Mr. Bun- 
ner talked. Trent listened to him, now that he was in for 
it, with genuine pleasure, now and then contributing a 
question or remark. Besides liking his companion, he en- 
joyed his conversation, with its unending verbal surprises, 
for its own sake. 

Mr. Bunner was, it appeared, resident in Paris as the 
chief Continental agent of the Manderson firm, and fully 
satisfied with his position and prospects. He discoursed 


152 


EVIL DAYS 


on these for some twenty minutes. This subject at length 
exhausted, he went on to tell Trent, who confessed that he 
had been away from England for a year, that Marlowe 
had shortly after the death of Manderson entered his fa- 
ther’s business, which was now again in a flourishing 
state, and had already come to be practically in control of 
it. They had kept up their intimacy, and were even now 
planning a holiday for the summer. Mr. Bunner spoke 
with generous admiration of his friend’s talent for affairs. 
‘Jack Marlowe has a natural big head,’ he declared, ‘and 
if he had more experience, I wouldn’t want to have him 
up against me. He would put a crimp in me every time.’ 

As the American’s talk flowed on, Trent listened with 
a slowly growing perplexity. It became more and more 
plain that something was very wrong in his theory of the 
situation; there was no mention of its central figure. Pres- 
ently Mr. Bunner mentioned that Marlowe was engaged 
to be married to an Irish girl, whose charms he celebrated 
with native enthusiasm. 

Trent clasped his hands savagely together beneath the 
table. What could have happened? His ideas were slid- 
ing and shifting. At last he forced himself to put a direct 
_ question. 

Mr. Bunner was not very fully informed. He knew that 
Mrs. Manderson had left England immediately after the 
settlement of her husband’s affairs, and had lived for some 
time in Italy. She had returned not long ago to London, 
where she had decided not to live in the house in Mayfair, 
and had bought a smaller one in the Hampstead neigh- 
bourhood; also, he understood, one somewhere in the 
country. She was said to go but little into society. ‘And all 
the good hard dollars just waiting for some one to sprad- 
dle them around,’ said Mr. Bunner, with a note of pathos 
in his voice. ‘Why, she has money to burn—money to feed 


153 


TRENT ’S LAST CASE 


to the birds—and nothing doing. The old man left her 
more than half his wad. And think of the figure she might 
make in the world. She is beautiful, and she is the best 
woman I ever met, too. But she couldn’t ever seem to get 
the habit of spending money the way it ought to be spent.’ 

His words now became a soliloquy: Trent’s thoughts 
were occupying all his attention. He pleaded business 
soon, and the two men parted with cordiality. 

Half an hour later Trent was in his studio, swiftly and 
mechanically ‘cleaning up’. He wanted to know what had 
happened; somehow he must find out. He could never 
approach herself, he knew; he would never bring back to 
her the shame of that last encounter with him; it was 
scarcely likely that he would even set eyes on her. But he 
must get to know! ... Cupples was in London, Mar- 
lowe was there. . . . And, anyhow, he was sick of Paris. 

Such thoughts came and went; and below them all 
_ strained the fibres of an unseen cord that dragged merci- 
lessly at his heart, and that he cursed bitterly in the mo- 
ments when he could not deny to himself that it was 
there. The folly, the useless, pitiable folly of it! 

In twenty-four hours his feeble roots in Paris had been 
torn out. He was looking over a leaden sea at the shining 
fortress-wall of the Dover cliffs. 


But though he had instinctively picked out the lines of 
a set purpose from among the welter of promptings in his 
mind, he found it delayed at the very outset. 

He had decided that he must first see Mr. Cupples, 
who would be in a position to tell him much more than 
the American knew. But Mr. Cupples was away on his 
travels, not expected to return for a month; and Trent 
had no reasonable excuse for hastening his return. Mar- 


154 


EVIL DAYS 


lowe he would not confront until he had tried at least 
to reconnoitre the position. He constrained himself not to 
commit the crowning folly of seeking out Mrs. Mander- 
son’s house in Hampstead; he could not enter it, and the 
thought of the possibility of being seen by her lurking in 
its neighbourhood brought the blood to his face. 

He stayed at an hotel, took a studio, and while he 
awaited Mr. Cupples’s return attempted vainly to lose 
himself in work. . 

At the end of a week he had an idea that he acted upon 
with eager precipitancy. She had let fall some word at 
their last meeting, of a taste for music. Trent went that 
evening, and thenceforward regularly, to the opera. He 
might see her; and if, in spite of his caution, she caught 
sight of him, they could be blind to each other’s presence 
—anybody might happen to go to the opera. 

So he went alone each evening, passing as quickly as he 
might through the people in the vestibule; and each eve- 
ning he came away knowing that she had not been in the 
house. It was a habit that yielded him a sort of satisfaction 
along with the guilty excitement of his search; for he too 
loved music, and nothing gave him so much peace while 

its magic endured. 

One night as he entered, hurrying through the brilliant 
crowd, he felt a touch on his arm. Flooded with an in- 
credible certainty at the touch, he turned. 

It was she: so much more radiant in the absence of 
grief and anxiety, in the fact that she was smiling, and in 
the allurement of evening dress, that he could not speak. 
She, too, breathed a little quickly, and there was a light 
of daring in her eyes and cheeks as she greeted him. 

Her words were few. ‘I wouldn’t miss a note of Tris- 
tan, she said, ‘nor must you. Come and see me in the in- 
terval.’ She gave him the number of the box. 


155 


Chapter XIII 


ERUPTION 


HE following two months were a period in Trent’s 
life that he has never since remembered without 
shuddering. He met Mrs. Manderson half-a-dozen times, 
and each time her cool friendliness, a nicely calculated 
mean between mere acquaintance and the first stage of 
intimacy, baffled and maddened him. At the opera he had 
found her, to his further amazement, with a certain Mrs. 
Wallace, a frisky matron whom he had known from 
childhood. Mrs. Manderson, it appeared, on her return 
from Italy, had somehow wandered into circles to which 
he belonged by nurture and disposition. It came, she said, 
of her having pitched her tent in their hunting-grounds; 
several of his friends were near neighbours. He had a dim 
but horrid recollection of having been on that occasion 
unlike himself, ill at ease, burning in the face, talking 
with idiot loquacity of his adventures in the Baltic prov- 
inces, and finding from time to time that he was address- 
ing himself exclusively to Mrs. Wallace. The other lady, 
when he joined them, had completely lost the slight ap- 
pearance of agitation with which she had stopped him in 
the vestibule. She had spoken pleasantly to him of her 
travels, of her settlement in London, and of people whom 
they both knew. | 
During the last half of the opera, which he had stayed 
in the box to hear, he had been conscious of nothing, as 
he sat behind them, but the angle of her cheek and the 
mass of her hair, the lines of her shoulder and arm, her 
156 


ERUPTION 


hand upon the cushion. The black hair had seemed at 
last a forest, immeasurable, pathless and enchanted, lur- 
ing him to a fatal adventure. . . . At the end he had been 
pale and subdued, parting with them rather formally. 

The next time he saw her—it was at a country house 
where both were guests—and the subsequent times, he 
had had himself in hand. He had matched her manner 
and had acquitted himself, he thought, decently, consid- 
ering——— 

Considering that he lived in an agony of bewilderment 
and remorse and longing. He could make nothing, abso- 
lutely nothing, of her attitude. That she had read his 
manuscript and understood the suspicion indicated in his 
last question to her at White Gables was beyond the pos- 
sibility of doubt. Then how could she treat him thus ami- 
ably and frankly, as she treated all the world of men who 
had done her no injury? 

For it had become clear to his intuitive sense, for all the 
absence of any shade of differentiation in her outward 
manner, that an injury had been done, and that she had 
felt it. Several times, on the rare and brief occasions when 
they had talked apart, he had warning from the same 
‘sense that she was approaching this subject; and each time 
he had turned the conversation with the ingenuity born 
of fear. Two resolutions he made. The first was that when 
he had completed a commissioned work which tied him 
to London he would go away and stay away. The strain 
was too great. He no longer burned to know the truth; 
he wanted nothing to confirm his fixed internal convic- 
tion but faith, that he had blundered, that he had misread 
the situation, misinterpreted her tears, written himself 
down a slanderous fool. He speculated no more on Mar- 
lowe’s motive in the killing of Manderson. Mr. Cupples 
returned to London, and Trent asked him nothing. He 


157 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


knew now that he had been right in those words— 
Trent remembered them for the emphasis with which 
they were spoken—‘So long as she considered herself 
bound to him . . . no power on earth could have per- 
suaded her.’ He met Mrs. Manderson at dinner at her 
uncle’s large and tomb-like house in Bloomsbury, and 
there he conversed most of the evening with a professor 
of archeology from Berlin. 

His other resolution was that he would not be with her 
alone. 

But when, a few days after, she wrote asking him to 
come and see her on the following afternoon, he made no 
attempt to excuse himself. This was a formal challenge. 


While she celebrated the rites of tea, and for some little 
time thereafter, she joined with such natural ease in his 
slightly fevered conversation on matters of the day that 
he began to hope she had changed what he could not 
doubt had been her resolve, to corner him and speak to 
him gravely. She was to all appearance careless now, smil- 
ing so that he recalled, not for the first time since that 
night at the opera, what was written long ago of a Prin- 
cess of Brunswick: ‘Her mouth has ten thousand charms 
that touch the soul.’ She made a tour of the beautiful 
room where she had received him, singling out this treas- 
ure or that from the spoils of a hundred bric-a-brac shops, 
laughing over her quests, discoveries, and bargainings. 
And when he asked if she would delight him again with 
a favourite piece of his which he had heard her play at 
another house, she consented at once. 

She played with a perfection of execution and feeling — 
that moved him now as it had moved him before. ‘You 
are a musician born,’ he said quietly when she had fin- 

158 


ERUPTION 


ished, and the last tremor of the music had passed away. 
‘I knew that before I first heard you.’ 

‘I have played a great deal ever since I can remember. 
It has been a great comfort to me,’ she said simply, and 
half-turned to him smiling. “When did you first detect 
music in me? Oh, of course: I was at the opera. But that 
wouldn’t prove much, would it?’ 

‘No,’ he said abstractedly, his sense still busy with the 
music that had just ended. ‘I think I knew it the first time 
I saw you.’ Then understanding of his own words came 
to him, and turned him rigid. For the first time the past 
had been invoked. 

There was a short silence. Mrs. Masterson looked at 
Trent, then hastily looked away. Colour began to rise in 
her cheeks, and she pursed her lips as if for whistling. 
Then with a defiant gesture of the shoulders which he 
remembered, she rose suddenly from the piano and placed 
herself in a chair opposite to him. 

“That speech of yours will do as well as anything,’ she 
began slowly, looking at the point of her shoe, ‘to bring 
us to what I wanted to say. I asked you here to-day on 
purpose, Mr. Trent, because I couldn’t bear it any longer. 
Ever since the day you left me at White Gables I have 
been saying to myself that it didn’t matter what you 
thought of me in that affair; that you were certainly not 
the kind of man to speak to others of what you believed 
about me, after what you had told me of your reasons for 
suppressing your manuscript. I asked myself how it could 
matter. But all the time, of course, I knew it did matter. 
It mattered horribly. Because what you thought was not 
true.’ She raised her eyes and met his gaze calmly. Trent, 
with a completely expressionless face, returned her look. 

‘Since I began to know you,’ he said, ‘I have ceased to 
think it.’ 


159 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


‘Thank you,’ said Mrs. Manderson; and blushed sud- 
denly and deeply. Then, playing with a glove, she added, 
‘But I want you to know what was true. 

‘I did not know if I should ever see you again,’ she went 
on in a lower voice, ‘but I felt that if I did I must speak 
to you about this. I thought it would not be hard to do so, 
because you seemed to me an understanding person; and 
besides, a woman. who has been married isn’t expected to 
have the same sort of difficulty as a young girl in speaking 
about such things when it is necessary. And then we did 
meet again, and I discovered that it was very difficult in- 
deed. You made it difficult.’ 

‘How?’ he asked quietly. 

‘I don’t know,’ said the lady. ‘But yes—I do know. It 
was just because you treated me exactly as if you had never 
thought or imagined anything of that sort about me. I 
had always supposed that if I saw you again you would 
turn on me that hard, horrible sort of look you had when 
you asked me that last question—do you remember ?—at 
White Gables. Instead of that you were just like any other 
acquaintance. You were just’—she hesitated and spread out 
her hands—‘nice. You know. After that first time at the 
opera when I spoke to you I went home positively won- 
dering if you had really recognized me. I mean, I thought 
you might have recognized my face without remember- 
ing who it was.’ 

A short laugh broke from Trent in spite of himself, but 
he said nothing. 

She smiled deprecatingly. “Well, I couldn’t remember 
if you had spoken my name; and I thought it might be 
so. But the next time, at the Iretons’, you did speak it, so 
I knew; and a dozen times during those few days I al- 
most brought myself to tell you, but never quite. I began 
to feel that you wouldn’t let me, that you would slip away 

160 


ERUPTION 


from the subject if I approached it. Wasn’t I right? Tell 
me, please.’ He nodded. ‘But why?’ He remained silent. 

‘Well, she said, ‘I will finish what I had to say, and 
_ then you will tell me, I hope, why you had to make it so 
hard. When I began to understand that you wouldn’t let 
me talk of the matter to you, it made me more deter- 
mined than ever. I suppose you didn’t realize that I would 
insist on speaking even if you were quite discouraging. I 
dare say I couldn’t have done it if I had been guilty, as 
you thought. You walked into my parlour to-day, never 
thinking I should dare. Well, now you see.’ , 

Mrs. Manderson had lost all her air of hesitancy. She 
had, as she was wont to say, talked herself enthusiastic, 
and in the ardour of her purpose to annihilate the mis- 
understanding that had troubled her so long she felt her- 
self mistress of the situation. 

‘I am going to tell you the story of the mistake you 
made,’ she continued, as Trent, his hands clasped between 
his knees, still looked at her enigmatically. “You will have 
to believe it, Mr. Trent; it is utterly true to life, with its 
confusions and hidden things and cross-purposes and per- 
fectly natural mistakes that nobody thinks twice about 
_ taking for facts. Please understand that I don’t blame you 
in the least, and never did, for jumping to the conclusion 
you did: You knew that I was estranged from my hus- 
band, and you knew what that so often means. You knew 
before I told you, I expect, that he had taken up an in- 
jured attitude towards me; and I was silly enough to try 
and explain it away. I gave you the explanation of it 
that I had given myself at first, before I realized the 
wretched truth; I told you he was disappointed in me 
because I couldn’t take a brilliant lead in society. Well, 
that was true; he was so. But I could see you weren’t con- 
vinced. You had guessed what it took me much longer to 


161 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


see, because I knew how irrational it was. Yes; my hus- 
band was jealous of John Marlowe; you divined that. 

‘Then I behaved like a fool when you let me see you 
had divined it; it was such a blow, you understand, when 
I had supposed all the humiliation and strain was at an 
end, and that his delusion had died with him. You prac- 
tically asked me if my husband’s secretary was not my 
lover, Mr. Trent—I have to say it, because I want you to 
understand why I broke down and made a scene. You 
took that for a confession; you thought I was guilty of 
that, and I think you even thought I might be a party to 
the crime, that I had consented. . . . That did hurt me; 
but perhaps you couldn’t have thought anything else—I 
don’t know.’ | 

Trent, who had not hitherto taken his eyes from her 
face, hung his head at the words. He did not raise it again 
as she continued. “But really it was simple shock and dis- 
tress that made me give way, and the memory of all the 
misery that mad suspicion had meant to me. And when I 
pulled myself together again you had gone.’ 

She rose and went to an escritoire beside the window, 
unlocked a drawer, and drew out a long, sealed envelope. 

‘This is the manuscript you left with me,’ she said. ‘I 
have read it through again and again. I have always won- 
dered, as everybody does, at your cleverness in things of 
this kind.’ A faintly mischievous smile flashed upon her 
face, and was gone. ‘I thought it was splendid, Mr. Trent 
—TI almost forgot that the story was my own, I was so in- 
terested. And I want to say now, while I have this in my 
hand, how much I thank you for your generous, chival- 
rous act in sacrificing this triumph of yours rather than 
put a woman’s reputation in peril. If all had been as you 
supposed, the facts must have come out when the police 
took up the case you put in their hands. Believe me, I un- 

162 


ERUPTION 


derstood just what you had done, and I never ceased to 
be grateful even when I felt most crushed by your sus- 
picion.’ 

As she spoke her thanks her voice shook a little, and 
her eyes were bright. Trent perceived nothing of this. His 
head was still bent. He did not seem to hear. She put the 
envelope into his hand as it lay open, palm upwards, on 
his knee. There was a touch of gentleness about the act 
which made him look up. 

‘Can you——’ he began slowly. 

She raised her hand as she stood before him. ‘No, Mr. 
Trent; let me finish before you say anything. It is such 
an unspeakable relief to me to have broken the ice at last, 
and I want to end the story while I am still feeling the tri- 
umph of beginning it.’ She sank down into the sofa from 
which she had first risen. ‘I am telling you a thing that 
nobody else knows. Everybody knew, I suppose, that some- 
thing had come between us, though I did everything in 
my power to hide it. But I don’t think anyone in the 
world ever guessed what my husband’s notion was. Peo- 
ple who know me don’t think that sort of thing about 
me, I believe. And his fancy was so ridiculously opposed 
. to the facts. I will tell you what the situation was. Mr. 
Marlowe and I had been friendly enough since he came 
to us. For all his cleverness—my husband said he had a 
keener brain than any man he knew—I looked upon him 
as practically a boy. You know I am a little older than he is, 
and he had a sort of amiable lack of ambition that made 
me feel it the more. One day my husband asked me what 
I thought was the best thing about Marlowe, and not 
thinking much about it I said, “His manners.” He sur- 
prised me very much by looking black at that, and after a 
silence he said, “Yes, Marlowe is a gentleman; that’s so,” 
not looking at me. 


163 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


‘Nothing was ever said about that again until about a 
year ago, when I found that Mr. Marlowe had done what 
1 always expected he would do—fallen desperately in love 
with an American girl. But to my disgust he had picked 
out the most worthless girl, I do believe, of all those 
whom we used to meet. She was the daughter of wealthy 
parents, and she did as she liked with them; very beauti- 
ful, well educated, very good at games—what they call a 
woman-athlete—and caring for nothing on earth but her 
own amusement. She was one of the most unprincipled 
flirts I ever knew, and quite the cleverest. Every one knew 
it, and Mr. Marlowe must have heard it; but she made a 
complete fool of him, brain and all. I don’t know how 
she managed it, but I can imagine. She liked him, of 
course; but it was quite plain to me that she was playing 
with him. The whole affair was so idiotic, I got perfectly 
furious. One day I asked him to row me in a boat on the 
lake—all this happened at our house by Lake George. 
We had never been alone together for any length of time 
before. In the boat I talked to him. I was very kind about 
it, I think, and he took it admirably, but he didn’t believe 
me a bit. He had the impudence to tell me that I misun- 
derstood Alice’s nature. When I hinted at his prospects— 
I knew he had scarcely anything of his own—he said that 
if she loved him he could make himself a position in the 
world. I dare say that was true, with his abilities and his 
friends—he is rather well connected, you know, as well 
as popular. But his enlightenment came very soon after 
that. 

‘My husband helped me out of the boat when we got 
back. He joked with Mr. Marlowe about something, I re- 
member; for through all that followed he never once 
changed in his manner to him, and that was one reason why 


164 


ERUPTION 


I took so long to realize what he thought about him and 
myself. But to me he was reserved and silent that evening 
—not angry. He was always perfectly cold and expres- 
sionless to me after he took this idea into his head. After 
dinner he only spoke to me once. Mr. Marlowe was tell- 
ing him about some horse he had bought for the farm in 
Kentucky, and my husband looked at me and said, “Mar- 
lowe may be a gentleman, but he seldom quits loser in a 
horse-trade.” I was surprised at that, but at that time— 
arid even on the next occasion when he found us together 
—I didn’t understand what was in his mind. That next 
time was the morning when Mr. Marlowe received a 
sweet little note from the girl asking for his congratula- 
tions on her engagement. It was in our New York house. 
He looked so wretched at breakfast that I thought he was 
ill, and afterwards I went to the room where he worked, 
and asked what was the matter. He didn’t say anything, 
but just handed me the note, and turned away to the win- 
dow..I was very glad that was all over, but terribly sorry 
for him too, of course. I don’t remember what I said, but 
I remember putting my hand on his arm as he stood there 
staring out on the garden; and just then my husband ap- 
peared at the open door with some papers. He just glanced 
at us, and then turned and walked quietly back to his 
study. I thought that he might have heard what I was 
saying to comfort Mr. Marlowe, and that it was rather 
nice of him to slip away. Mr. Marlowe neither saw nor 
heard him. My husband left the house that morning for 
_ the West while I was out. Even then IJ did not understand. 
He used often to go off suddenly like that, if some busi- 
ness project called him. 

‘It was not until he returned a week later that I grasped 
the situation. He was looking white and strange, and as 


165 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


soon as he saw me he asked me where Mr. Marlowe was. 
Somehow the tone of his question told me everything in 
a flash. 

‘I almost gasped; I was wild with indignation. You 
know, Mr. Trent, I don’t think I should have minded at 
all if anyone had thought me capable of openly breaking 
with my husband and leaving him for somebody else. I 
dare say I might have done that. But that coarse suspicion 
. «aman whom he trusted . . . and the notion of con- 
cealment. It made me see scarlet. Every shred of pride in 
me was strung up till I quivered, and I swore to myself on 
the spot that I would never show by any word or sign that 
I was conscious of his having such a thought about me. I 
would behave exactly as I always had behaved, I deter- 
mined—and that I did, up to the very last. Though Iknew 
that a wall had been made between us now that could 
never be broken down—even if he asked my pardon and 
obtained it—I never once showed that I noticed any 
change. 

‘And so it went on. I never could go through such a 
time again. My husband showed silent and cold polite- 
ness to me always when we were alone—and that was 
only when it was unavoidable. He never once alluded to 
what was in his mind; but I felt it, and he knew that I 
felt it. Both of us were stubborn in our different attitudes. 
To Mr. Marlowe he was more friendly, if anything, than 
before—Heaven only knows why. I fancied he was plan- 
ning some sort of revenge; but that was only a fancy. Cer- 
tainly Mr. Marlowe never knew what was suspected of him. 
He and I remained good friends, though we never spoke of 
anything intimate after that disappointment of his; but I 
made a point of seeing no less of him than I had always 
done. Then we came to England and to White Gables, 
and after that followed—my husband’s dreadful end.’ 

166 


ERUPTION 


She threw out her right hand in a gesture of finality. 
“You know about the rest—so much more than any other 
man, she added, and glanced up at him with a quaint 
expression. 

Trent wondered at that look, but the wonder was only 
a passing shadow on his thought. Inwardly his whole be- 
ing was possessed by thankfulness. All the vivacity had 
returned to his face. Long before the lady had ended her 
story he had recognized the certainty of its truth, as from 
the first days of their renewed acquaintance he had 
doubted the story that his imagination had built up at 
White Gables, upon foundations that seemed so good to 
him. 

He said, ‘I don’t know how to begin the apologies I 
have to make. There are no words to tell you how ashamed 
and disgraced I feel when I realize what a crude, cock- 
sure blundering at a conclusion my suspicion was. Yes, 
I suspected—you! I had almost forgotten that I was ever 
such a fool. Almost—not quite. Sometimes when I have 
been alone I have remembered that folly, and poured con- 
tempt on it. I have tried to imagine what the facts were. 
I have tried to excuse myself.’ 

She interrupted him quickly. ‘What nonsense! Do be 
sensible, Mr. Trent. You had only seen me on two oc- 
casions in your life before you came to me with your so- 
lution of the mystery.’ Again the quaint expression came 
and was gone. ‘If you talk of folly, it really is folly for a 
man like you to pretend to a woman like me that I had 
innocence written all over me in large letters—so large 
that you couldn’t believe very strong evidence against me 
after seeing me twice.’ 

‘What do you mean by “a man like me”? he de- 
manded with a sort of fierceness. ‘Do you take me for a 
person without any normal instincts? I don’t say you im- 

167 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


press people as a simple, transparent sort of character— 
what Mr. Calvin Bunner calls a case of open-work; I don’t 
say a stranger might not think you capable of wickedness, 
if there was good evidence for it: but I say that a man 
who, after seeing you and being in your atmosphere, could 
associate you with the particular kind of abomination I 
imagined, is a fool—the kind of fool who is afraid to trust 
his senses. . . . As for my making it hard for you to ap- 
proach the subject, as you say, it is true. It was simply 
moral cowardice. I understood that you wished to clear 
the matter up; and I was revolted at the notion of my in- 
jurious blunder being discussed. I tried to show you by 
my actions that it was as if it had never been. I hoped you 
would pardon me without any words. I can’t forgive my- 
self, and I never shall. And yet if you could know—— 
He stopped short, and then added quietly, “Well, will you 
accept all that as an apology? The very scrubbiest sack- 
cloth made, and the grittiest ashes on the heap... . I 
didn’t mean to get worked up, he ended lamely. 

Mrs. Manderson laughed, and her laugh carried him 
away with it. He knew well by this time that sudden rush 
of cascading notes of mirth, the perfect expression of enjoy- 
ment; he had many times tried to amuse her merely for 
his delight in the sound of it. 

‘But I love to see you worked up,’ she said. “The bump 
with which you always come down as soon as you realize 
that you are up in the air at all is quite delightful. Oh, 
we're actually both laughing. What a triumphant end to 
our explanations, after all my dread of the time when I 
should have it out with you. And now it’s all over, and 
you know; and we'll never speak of it any more.’ 


‘I hope not,’ Trent said in sincere relief. ‘If you’re re- 


solved to be so kind as this about it, I am not high-princi- 
pled enough to insist on your blasting me with your 


168 


ERUPTION 


lightnings. And now, Mrs. Manderson, I had better go. 
Changing the subject after this would be like playing 
puss-in-the-corner after an earthquake.’ He rose to his 
feet. 

‘You are right,’ she said. ‘But no! Wait. There is an- 
other thing—part of the same subject; and we ought to 
pick up all the pieces now while we are about it. Please 
sit down.’ She took the envelope containing Trent’s man- 
uscript dispatch from the table where he had laid it. ‘J 
want to speak about this.’ 

His brows bent, and he looked at her jiewindifpldes ‘So 
do I, if you do, he said slowly. ‘I want very much to 
know one thing.’ 

‘Tell me.’ 

‘Since my reason for suppressing that information was 
all a fantasy, why did you never make any use of it? 
When I began to realize that I had been wrong about you, 
I explained your silence to myself by saying that you could 
not bring yourself to do a thing that would put a rope 
round a man’s neck, whatever he might have done. I can 
quite understand that feeling. Was that what it was? An- 
other possibility I thought of was that you knew of some- 
thing that was by way of justifying or excusing Marlowe’s 
act. Or I thought you might have a simple horror, quite 
apart from humanitarian scruples, of appearing publicly 
in connection with a murder trial. Many important wit- 
nesses in such cases have to be practically forced into giv- 
ing their evidence. They feel there is defilement in the 
shadow of the scaffold.’ 

Mrs. Manderson tapped her lips with the envelope 
without quite concealing a smile. “You didn’t think of an- 
other possibility, I suppose, Mr. Trent,’ she said. 

‘No.’ He looked puzzled. 3 

‘T mean the possibility of your having been wrong about 

‘169 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


Mr. Marlowe as well as about me. No, no; you needn’t 
tell me that the chain of evidence is complete. I know it 
is. But evidence of what? Of Mr. Marlowe having im- 
personated my husband that night, and having escaped 
by way of my window, and built up an alibi. I have read 
your dispatch again and again, Mr. Trent, and I don’t see 
that those things can be doubted.’ 

Trent gazed at her with narrowed eyes. He said noth- 
ing to fill the brief pause that followed. Mrs. Manderson 
smoothed her skirt with a preoccupied air, as one collect- 
ing her ideas. 

‘I did not make any use of the facts found out by you,’ 
she slowly said at last, ‘because it seemed to me very likely 
that they would be fatal to Mr. Marlowe.’ 

‘T agree with you,’ Trent remarked in a colourless tone. 

‘And,’ pursued the lady, looking up at him with a mild 
reasonableness in her eyes, ‘as I knew that he was inno- 
cent I was not going to expose him to that risk.’ 

There was another little pause. Trent rubbed his chin, 
with an affectation of turning over the idea. Inwardly he 
was telling himself, somewhat feebly, that this was very 
right and proper; that it was quite feminine, and that he 
liked her to be feminine. It was permitted to her—more 
than permitted—to set her loyal belief in the character of 
a friend above the clearest demonstrations of the intellect. 
Nevertheless, it chafed him. He would have had her dec- 
laration of faith a little less positive in form. It was too 
irrational to say she ‘knew’. In fact (he put it to himself 
bluntly), it was quite unlike her..If to be unreasonable 
when reason led to the unpleasant was a specially femi- 
nine trait, and if Mrs. Manderson had it, she was accus- 
tomed to wrap it up better than any woman he had 
known. 

“You suggest,’ he said at length, ‘that Marlowe con- 


170 


ERUPTION 


structed an alibi for himself, by means which only a des- 
perate man would have attempted, to clear himself of a 
crime he did not commit. Did he tell you he was inno- 
cent?’ 

She uttered a little laugh of impatience. ‘So you think 
he has been talking me round. No, that is not so. I am 
merely sure he did not do it. Ah! I see you think that ab- 
surd. But see how unreasonable you are, Mr. Trent! Just 
now you were explaining to me quite sincerely that it 
was foolishness in you to have a certain suspicion of me 
after seeing me and being in my atmosphere, as you said.’ 
Trent started in his chair. She glanced at him, and went 
on: ‘Now, I and my atmosphere are much obliged to you, 
but we must stand up for the rights of other atmospheres. 
I know a great deal more about Mr. Marlowe’s atmos- 
phere than you know about mine even now. I saw him 
constantly for several years. I don’t pretend to know all 
about him; but I do know that he is incapable of a crime 
of bloodshed. The idea of his planning a murder is as un- 
thinkable to me as the idea of your picking a poor wom- 
an’s pocket, Mr. Trent. I can imagine you killing a man, 
you know .. . if the man deserved it and had an equal 
chance of killing you. I could kill a person myself in 
some circumstances. But Mr. Marlowe was incapable of 
doing it, I don’t care what the provocation might be. He 
had a temper that nothing should shake, and he looked 
upon human nature with a sort of cold magnanimity that 
would find excuses for absolutely anything. It wasn’t a 
pose; you could see it was a part of him. He never put it 
forward, but it was there always. It was quite irritating at 
times. .. . Now and then in America, I remember, I 
have heard people talking about lynching, for instance, 
when he was there. He would sit quite silent and expres- 
sionless, appearing not to listen; but you could feel dis- 


171 


TRENT ’S LAST CASE 


gust coming from him in waves. He really loathed and 
hated physical violence. He was a very strange man in 
some ways, Mr. Trent. He gave one a feeling that he 
might do unexpected things—do you know that feeling 
one has about some people? What part he really played 
in the events of that night I have never been able to guess. 
But nobody who knew anything about him could possibly 
believe in his deliberately taking a man’s life.’ Again the 
movement of her head expressed finality, and she leaned 
back in the sofa, calmly regarding him. 

‘Then,’ said Trent, who had followed this watt earnest 
attention, ‘we are forced back on two other possibilities, 
which I had not thought worth much consideration until 
this moment. Accepting what you say, he might still con- 
ceivably have killed in self-defence; or he might have 
done so by accident.’ 

The lady nodded. “Of course I thought of those two ex- 
planations when I read your manuscript.’ 

‘And I suppose you felt, as I did myself, that in either 
of those cases the natural thing, and obviously the safest 
thing, for him to do was to make a public statement of 
the truth, instead of setting up a series of deceptions 
which would certainly stamp him as guilty in the eyes of 
the law, if anything went wrong with them.’ 

‘Yes,’ she said wearily, ‘I thought over all that until my 
head ached. And I thought somebody else might have 
done it, and that he was somehow screening the guilty 
person. But that seemed wild. I could see no light in the 
mystery, and after a while I simply left it alone. All I was 
clear about was that Mr. Marlowe was not a murderer, 
and that if I told what you had found out, the judge and 
jury would probably think he was. I promised myself that 
I would speak to you about it if we should meet again; 
and now I’ve kept my promise.’ 


172 


ERUPTION 


Trent, his chin resting on his hand, was staring at the 
carpet. The excitement of the hunt for the truth was 
steadily rising in him. He had not in his own mind ac- 
cepted Mrs. Manderson’s account of Marlowe’s character 
as unquestionable. But she had spoken forcibly; he could 
by no means set it aside, and his theory was much shaken. 

“There is only one thing for it, he said, looking up. ‘I 
must see Marlowe. It worries me too much to have the 
thing left like this. I will get at the truth. Can you tell 
me, he broke off, ‘how he behaved after the day I left 
White Gables ?’ 

‘I never saw him after that,’ said Mrs. Manderson sim- 
ply. ‘For some days after you went away I was ill, and 
didn’t go out of my room. When I got down he had left 
and was in London, settling things with the lawyers. He 
did not come down to the funeral. Immediately after that 
I went abroad. After some weeks a letter from him reached 
me, saying he had concluded his business and given the 
solicitors all the assistance in his power. He thanked me 
very nicely for what he called all my kindness, and said 
good-bye. There was nothing in it about his plans for the 
future, and I thought it particularly strange that he said 
~ not a word about my husband’s death. I didn’t answer. 
Knowing what I knew, I couldn’t. In those days I shud- 
dered whenever I thought of that masquerade in the 
night. I never wanted to see or hear of him again,’ 

“Then you don’t know what has become of him?’ 

‘No; but I dare say uncle Burton—Mr. Cupples, you 
know—could tell you. Some time ago he told me that he 
had met Mr. Marlowe in London, and had some talk 
with him. I changed the conversation.’ She paused and 
smiled with a trace of mischief. ‘I rather wonder what 
you supposed had happened to Mr. Marlowe after you 


173 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


withdrew from the scene of the drama that you had put 
together so much to your satisfaction.’ 

Trent flushed. ‘Do you really want to know?” he said. 

‘I ask you,’ she retorted quietly. 

“You ask me to humiliate myself again, Mrs. Mander- 
son. Very well. I will tell you what I thought I should 
most likely find when I returned to London after my 
travels; that you had married Marlowe and gone to live 
road: : 

She heard him with unmoved composure. “We cer- 
tainly couldn’t have lived very comfortably in England 
on his money and mine,’ she observed thoughtfully. “He 
had practically nothing then,’ 

He stared at her—‘gaped,’ she told him some time after- 
wards. At the moment she laughed with a little embar- 
rassment. 

‘Dear me, Mr. Trent! Have I said apes dreadful ? 
You surely must know. . . . I thought everybody under- 
stood by now. .. . I’m sure I’ve had to explain it often 
enough ... if I marry again I lose everything that my 
husband left me.’ 3 

The effect of this speech upon Trent was curious. For 
an instant his face was flooded with the emotion of sur- 
prise. As this passed away he gradually drew himself to- 
gether, as he sat, into a tense attitude. He looked, she 
thought as she saw his knuckles grow white on the arms 
of the chair, like a man prepared for pain under the hand 
of the surgeon. But all he said, in a voice lower than his 
usual tone, was, ‘I had no idea of it.’ 

‘It is so, she said calmly, trifling with a ring on her fin- 
ger. ‘Really, Mr. Trent, it is not such a very unusual thing. 
I think I am glad of it. For one thing, it has secured me— 
at least since it became generally known—from a good 


174 


ot. 2» 


BRUPTION 


many attentions of a kind that a woman in my position 
has to put up with as a rule.’ 

‘No doubt,’ he said gravely. ‘And . . . the other kind?’ 

She looked at him questioningly. ‘Ah!’ she laughed. 
“The other kind trouble me even less. I have not yet met 
a man silly enough to want to marry a widow with a self- 
ish disposition, and luxurious habits and tastes, and noth- 
ing but the little my father left me.’ 

She shook her head, and something in the gesture shat- 
tered the last remnants of Trent’s self-possession. 

‘Haven’t you, by Heaven!’ he exclaimed, rising with a 
violent movement and advancing a step towards her. 
“Then I am going to show you that human passion is not 
always stifled by the smell of money. I am going to end 
the business—my business. I am going to tell you what 
I dare say scores of better men have wanted to tell you, 
but couldn’t summon up what I have summoned up—the 
infernal cheek to do it. They were afraid of making fools 
of themselves. I am not. You have accustomed me to the 
feeling this afternoon.’ He laughed aloud in the rush of 
words, and spread out his hands. “Look at me! It is the 
sight of the century. It is one who says he loves you, and 
would ask you to give up very great wealth to stand at 
his side.’ 

She was hiding her face in her hands. He heard her say 
brokenly, “Please . . . don’t speak in that way.’ 

He answered: ‘It will make a great difference to me if 
you will allow me to say all I have to say before I leave 
you. Perhaps it is in bad taste, but I will risk that; I want 
to relieve my soul; it needs open confession. This is the 
truth. You have troubled me ever since the first time I 
saw you—and you did not know it—as you sat under the 
edge of the cliff at Marlstone, and held out your arms to 


175 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


the sea. It was only your beauty that filled my mind then. 
As I passed by you it seemed as if all the life in the place 
were crying out a song about you in the wind and the 
sunshine. And the song stayed in my ears; but even your 
beauty would be no more than an empty memory to me 
by now if that had been all. It was when I led you from 
the hotel there to your house, with your hand on my arm, 
that—what was it that happened? I only knew that your 
stronger magic had struck home, and that I never should 
forget that day, whatever the love of my life should be. 
Till that day I had admired as I should admire the loveli- 
ness of a still lake; but that day I felt the spell of the di- 
vinity of the lake. And next morning the waters were 
troubled, and she rose—the morning when I came to you 
with my questions, tired out with doubts that were as bit- 
ter as pain, and when I saw you without your pale, sweet 
mask of composure—when I saw you moved and glow- 
ing, with your eyes and your hands alive, and when you 
made me understand that for such a creature as you there 
had been emptiness and the mere waste of yourself for so 
long. Madness rose in me then, and my spirit was clam- 
ouring to say what I say at last now: that life would never 
seem a full thing again because you could not love me, 
that I was taken for ever in the nets of your black hair 
and by the incantation of your voice——’ 

‘Oh, stop!’ she cried, suddenly throwing back her head, 
her face flaming-and her hands clutching the cushions 
beside her. She spoke fast and disjointedly, her breath 
coming quick. ‘You shall not talk me into forgetting com- 
mon sense. What does all this mean? Oh, I do not recog- 
nize you at all—you seem another man. We are not chil- 
dren; have you forgotten that? You speak like a boy in 
love for the first time. It is foolish, unreal—I know that if 
you do not. I will not hear it. What has happened to you?” 


176 | 


ERUPTION 


She was half sobbing. “How can these sentimentalities 
come from a man like you? Where is your self-restraint?” 

‘Gone!’ exclaimed Trent, with an abrupt laugh. ‘It has 
got right away. I am going after it in a minute.’ He looked 
gravely down into her eyes. ‘I don’t care so much now. I 
never could declare myself to you under the cloud of your 
great fortune. It was too heavy. There’s nothing creditable 
in that feeling, as I look at it; as a matter of simple fact it 
was a form of cowardice—fear of what you would think, 
and very likely say—fear of the world’s comment too, I 
suppose. But the cloud being rolled away, I have spoken, 
and I don’t care so much. I can face things with a quiet 
mind now that I have told you the truth in its own terms. 
You may call it sentimentality or any other nickname you 
like. It is quite true that it was not intended for a scientific 
statement. Since it annoys you, let it be extinguished. But 
please believe that it was serious to me if it was comedy 
to you. I have said that I love you, and honour you, and 
would hold you dearest of all the world. Now give me 
leave to go.’ 


But she held out her hands to him. 


177 


Chapter XIV 


WRITING A LETTER 


‘YF you insist, Trent said, ‘I suppose you will have your 

way. But I had much rather write it when I am not 
with you. However, if I must, bring me a tablet whiter 
than a star, or hand of hymning angel; I mean a sheet of 
note-paper not stamped with your address. Don’t under- 
estimate the sacrifice I am making. I never felt like cor- 
respondence in my life.’ 

She rewarded him. 

“What shall I say?’ he inquired, his pen hovering over 
the paper. ‘Shall I compare him to a summer’s day? What 
shall I say?’ 

‘Say what you want to say,’ she suggested helpfully. 

He shook his head. “What I want to say—what I have 
been wanting for the past twenty-four hours to say to ev- 
ery man, woman, and child I met—is “Mabel and I are 
betrothed, and all is gas and gaiters.” But that wouldn’t 
be a very good opening for a letter of strictly formal, not 
to say sinister, character. I have got as far as “Dear Mr. 
Marlowe.” What comes next?’ 

‘I am sending you a manuscript,’ she prompted, ‘which 
I thought you might like to see.’ 

‘Do you realize, he said, ‘that in that sentence there 
are only two words of more than one syllable? This letter 
is meant to impress, not to put him at his ease. We must 
have long words.’ 

‘I don’t see why,’ she answered. ‘I know it is usual, but 
why is it? I have had a great many letters from lawyers 


175 


WRITING A LETTER 


and business people, and they always begin, “with refer- 
ence to our communication,” or some such mouthful, and 
go on like that all the way through. Yet when I see them 
they don’t talk like that. It seems ridiculous to me.’ 

‘It is not at all ridiculous to them.’ Trent laid aside the 
pen with an appearance of relief and rose to his feet. “Let 
me explain. A people like our own, not very fond of using 
its mind, gets on in the ordinary way with a very small 
and simple vocabulary. Long words are abnormal, and 
like everything else that is abnormal, they are either very 
funny or tremendously solemn. Take the phrase “intelli- 
gent anticipation,” for instance. If such a phrase had been 
used in any other country in Europe, it would not have 
attracted the slightest attention. With us it has become a 
proverb; we all grin when we hear it in a speech or read 
it in a leading article; it is considered to be one of the best 
things ever said. Why? Just because it consists of two long 
words. The idea expressed is as commonplace as cold mut- 
ton. Then there’s “terminological inexactitude.’ How we 
all roared, and are still roaring, at that! And the whole 
of the joke is that the words are long. It’s just the same 
when we want to be very serious; we mark it by turning 
to long words. When a solicitor can begin a sentence with, 
“pursuant to the instructions communicated to our rep- 
resentative,” or some such gibberish, he feels that he is 
earning his six-and-eightpence. Don’t laugh! It is perfect- 
ly true. Now Continentals haven’t got that feeling. They 
are always bothering about ideas, and the result is that 
every shopkeeper or peasant has a vocabulary in daily use 
that is simply Greek to the vast majority of Britons. I re- 
member some time ago I was dining with a friend of mine 
who is a Paris cabman. We had dinner at a dirty little 
restaurant opposite the central post office, a place where 
all the clients were cabmen or porters. Conversation was 


179 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


general, and it struck me that a London cabman would 
have felt a little out of his depth. Words like “function- 
ary” and “unforgettable” and “exterminate” and “inde- 
pendence” hurtled across the table every instant. And 
these were just ordinary, vulgar, jolly, red-faced cabmen. 
Mind you, he went on hurriedly, as the lady crossed the 
room and took up his pen, ‘I merely mention this to il- 
lustrate my point. I’m not saying that cabmen ought to be 
intellectuals. I don’t think so; I agree with Keats—happy 
is England, sweet her artless cabmen, enough their simple 
loveliness for me. But when you come to the people who 
make up the collective industrial brain-power of the coun- 
try.... Why, do you know——’ 

‘Oh, no, no, no!’ cried Mrs. Manderson. ‘I don’t know 
anything at the moment, except that your talking must 
be stopped somehow, if we are to get any farther with 
that letter to Mr. Marlowe. You shall not get out of it. 
Come!’ She put the pen into his hand. 

Trent looked at it with distaste. ‘I warn you not to 
discourage my talking,’ he said dejectedly. ‘Believe me, 
men who don’t talk are even worse to live with than men 
who do. Oh, have a care of natures that are mute. I con- 
fess I’m shirking writing this thing. It is almost an inde- 
cency. It’s mixing two moods to write the sort of letter I 
mean to write, and at the same time to be sitting in the 
same room with you.’ 

She led him to his abandoned chair before the escritoire 
and pushed him gently into it. “Well, but please try. I want 
to see what you write, and I want it to go to him at once. 
You see, I would be contented enough to leave things as 
they are; but you say you must get at the truth, and if you 
must, I want it to be as soon as possible. Do it now—you 
know you can if you will—and I’ll send it off the moment 
it’s ready. Don’t you ever feel that—the longing to get 


180 


WRITING A LETTER 


the worrying letter into the post and off your hands, so 
that you can’t recall it if you would, and it’s no use fussing 
any more about it?’ 

‘T will do as you wish,’ he said, and turned to the paper, 
which he dated as from his hotel. Mrs. Manderson looked 
down at his bent head with a gentle light in her eyes, and 
made as if to place a smoothing hand upon his rather un- 
tidy crop of hair. But she did not touch it. Going in si- 
lence to the piano, she began to play very softly. It was 
ten minutes before Trent spoke. 

‘If he chooses to reply that he will say nothing?” 

Mrs. Manderson looked over her shoulder. ‘Of course 
he dare not take that line. He will speak to prevent you 
from denouncing him.’ 

‘But ’m not going to do that anyhow. You wouldn’t 
allow it—you said so; besides, I won’t if you would. The 
thing’s too doubtful now,’ 

‘But,’ she laughed, ‘poor Mr. Marlowe doesn’t know you: 
won't, does he?’ 

Trent sighed. “What extraordinary things codes of hon- 
our are!’ he remarked abstractedly. ‘I know that there 
are things I should do, and never think twice about, which 
would make you feel disgraced if you did them—such as 
giving anyone who grossly insulted me a black eye, or 
swearing violently when I barked my shin in a dark room. 
And now you are calmly recommending me to bluff Mar- 
lowe by means of a tacit threat which I don’t mean; a 
thing which hell’s most abandoned fiend did never, in the 
drunkenness of guilt—well, anyhow, I won’t do it.’ He re- 


sumed his writing, and the lady, with an indulgent smile, 


returned to playing very softly. 
In a few minutes more, Trent said: ‘At last I am his 
faithfully. Do you want to see it?’ She ran across the twilit 
181 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


room, and turned on a reading lamp beside the escritoire. 
Then, leaning on his shoulder, she read what follows: 


Dear Mr. Martowe,—You will perhaps remember that we 
met, under unhappy circumstances, in June of last year at 
Marlstone. ~ 

On that occasion it was my duty, as representing a news- 
paper, to make an independent investigation of the circum- 
stances of the death of the late Sigsbee Manderson. I did so, 
and I arrived at certain conclusions. You may learn from the 
enclosed manuscript, which was originally written as a dits- 
patch for my newspaper, what those conclusions were. For 
reasons which it 1s not necessary to state I decided at the last 
moment not to make them public, nor to communicate them 
to you, and they are known to only two persons besides my- 
self. 


At this point Mrs. Manderson raised her eyes quickly 
from the letter. Her dark brows were drawn together. 
“Two persons?’ she said with a note of inquiry. 

‘Your uncle is the other. I sought him out last night and 
told him the whole story. Have you anything against it? 
I always felt uneasy at keeping it from him as I did, be- 
cause I had led him to expect I should tell him all I dis- 
covered, and my silence looked like mystery-making. Now 
it is to be cleared up finally, and there is no question of 
shielding you, I wanted him to know everything. He is 
a very shrewd adviser, too, in a way of his own; and I 
should like to have him with me when I see Marlowe. I 
have a feeling that two heads will be better than one on 
my side of the interview.’ 

She sighed. ‘Yes, of course, uncle ought to know the 
truth. I hope there is nobody else at all.’ She pressed his 
hand. ‘I so much want all that horror buried—buried 
deep. I am very happy now, dear, but I shall be happier — 
still when you have satisfied that curious mind of yours 

182 


WRITING A LETTER 


and found out everything, and stamped down the earth 
upon it all.’ She continued her reading. 


Quite recently, however (the letter went on), facts have 
come to my knowledge which have led me to change my 
decision. I do not mean that I shall publish what I dts- 
covered, but that I have determined to approach you and ask 
you for a private statement. If you have anything to say which 
would place the matter in another light, I can imagine no 
reason why you should withhold it. 

I expect, then, to hear from you when and where I may 
call upon you; unless you would prefer the interview to take 
place at my hotel. In either case I desire that Mr. Cupples, 
whom you will remember, and who has read the enclosed 
document, should be present also—Faithfully yours, 

Puivip TRENT. 


“What a very stiff letter!’ she said. ‘Now I am sure you 
couldn’t have made it any stiffer in your own rooms,’ 

Trent slipped the letter and enclosure into a long en- 
ve ope. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think it will make him sit up sud- 
denly. Now this thing mustn’t run any risk of going 
wrong. It would be best to send a special messenger with 
orders to deliver it into his own hands. If he’s away it 
oughtn’t to be left.’ 

She nodded. ‘I can arrange that. Wait here for a little.’ 


When Mrs. Manderson returned, he was hunting through 
the music cabinet, and she knelt on the carpet beside him. 
‘Tell me something, Philip,’ she said. 

‘If it is among the few things that I know.’ 

“When you saw uncle last night, did you tell him about 
—about us?’ 

‘I did not,’ he answered. ‘I remembered you had said 
nothing about telling anyone. It is for you—isn’t it?P—to 


183 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


decide whether we take the world into our confidence at 
once or later on.’ 

‘Then will you tell him?’ She looked down at her 
clasped hands. ‘I wish you to tell him. Perhaps if you 
think you will guess why. . . . There! that is settled.’ She 
lifted her eyes again to his, and for a time there was si- 
lence between them. 


He leaned back at length in the deep chair. “What a 
world!’ he said. ‘Mabel, will you play something on the 
piano that expresses mere joy, the genuine article, noth- 
ing feverish or like thorns under a pot, but joy that has 
decided in favour of the universe? It’s a mood that can’t 
last altogether, so we had better get all we can out of it.’ 

She went to the instrument and struck a few chords 
while she thought. Then she began to work with all her 
soul at the theme in the last movement of the Ninth Sym- 
phony which is like the sound of the opening of the gates 
of Paradise. 


Chapter XV 


DOUBLE CUNNING 


n old oaken desk with a deep body stood by the win- 
dow in a room that overlooked St. James’s Park 
from a height. The room was large, furnished and decor- 
ated by someone who had brought taste to the work; but 
the hand of the bachelor lay heavily upon it. John Mar- 
lowe unlocked the desk and drew a long, stout envelope 
from the back of the well. 

‘I understand,’ he said to Mr. SOPDIES, ‘that you have 
read this.’ 

‘I read it for the first time two days ago,’ replied Mr. 
Cupples, who, seated on a sofa, was peering about the 
room with a benignant face. “We have discussed it fully.’ 

Marlowe turned to Trent. “There is your manuscript,’ he 
said, laying the envelope on the table. ‘I have gone over 
it three times. I do not believe there is another man who 
could have got at as much of the truth as you have set 
down there.’ 

Trent ignored the compliment. He sat by the table gaz- 
ing stonily at the fire, his long legs twisted beneath his 
chair. ‘You mean, of course,’ he said, drawing the en- 
velope towards him, ‘that there is more of the truth to be 
disclosed now. We are ready to hear you as soon as you 
like. I expect it will bea long story, and the longer the 
better, so far as I am concerned; I want to understand 
thoroughly. What we should both like, I think, is some 
preliminary account of Manderson and your relations with 
him. It seemed to me from the first that the character of 


185 


TRENT ’S LAST CASE 


the dead man must be somehow an element in the busi- 
ness. 

‘You were right,’ Marlowe answered grimly. He crossed 
the room and seated himself on a corner of the tall cush- 
ion-topped fender. ‘I will begin as you suggest.’ 

‘I ought to tell you beforehand,’ said Trent, looking him 
in the eyes, ‘that although I am here to listen to you, I 
have not as yet any reason to doubt the conclusions I have 
stated here.’ He tapped the envelope. ‘It is a defence that 
you will be putting forward—you understand that?’ 

‘Perfectly.’ Marlowe was cool and in complete posses- 
sion of himself, a man different indeed from the worn- 
out, nervous being Trent remembered at Marlstone a year 
and a half ago. His tall, lithe figure was held with the per- 
fection of muscular tone. His brow was candid, his blue 
eyes were clear, though they still had, as he paused collect- 
ing his ideas, the look that had troubied Trent at their 
first meeting. Only the lines of his mouth showed that he 
knew himself in a position of difficulty, and meant to 
face it. 

‘Sigsbee Manderson was not a man of normal mind;' 
Marlowe began in his quiet voice. ‘Most of the very rich 
men I met with in America had become so by virtue of 
abnormal greed, or abnormal industry, or abnormal per- 
sonal force, or abnormal luck. None of them had remark- 
able intellects. Manderson delighted too in heaping up 
wealth; he worked incessantly at it; he was a man of dom- 
inant will; he had quite his share of luck; but what made 
him singular was his brain-power. In his own country 
they would perhaps tell you that it was his ruthlessness in 
pursuit of his aims that was his most striking characteris- 
tic; but there are hundreds of them who would have car- 
ried out his plans with just as little consideration for others 
if they could have formed the plans. 


186 


DOUBLE CUNNING 


‘Tm not saying Americans aren’t clever; they are ten 
times cleverer than we are, as a nation; but I never met 
another who showed such a degree of sagacity and fore- 
sight, such gifts of memory and mental tenacity, such 
sheer force of intelligence, as there was behind everything 
Manderson did in his money-making career. They called 
him the “Napoleon of Wall Street” often enough in the 
papers; but few people knew so well as I did how much 
truth there was in the phrase. He seemed never to forget 
a fact that might be of use to him, in the first place; and 
he did systematically with the business facts that con- 
cerned him what Napoleon did, as I have read, with mili- 
tary facts. He studied them in special digests which were 
prepared for him at short intervals, and which he always 
had at hand, so that he could take up his report on coal 
or wheat or railways, or whatever it might be, in any un- 
occupied moment. Then he could make a bolder and clev- 
erer plan than any man of them all. People got to know 
that Manderson would never do the obvious thing, but 
they got no farther; the thing he did do was almost always 
a surprise, and much of his success flowed from that. The 
Street got rattled, as they used to put it, when it was 
known that the old man was out with his gun, and often 
his opponents seemed to surrender as easily as Colonel 
Crockett’s coon in the story. The scheme I am going to 
describe to you would have occupied most men long 
enough. Manderson could have plotted the whole thing, 
down to the last detail, while he shaved himself. 

‘I used to think that his strain of Indian blood, remote 
as it was, might have something to do with the cunning 
and ruthlessness of the man. Strangely enough, its exist- 
ence was unknown to anyone but himself and me. It was 
when he asked me to apply my taste for genealogical 
work to his own obscure family history that I made the 

187 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 
discovery that he had in him a share of the blood of the 


Iroquois chief Montour and his French wife, a terrible 
woman who ruled the savage politics of the tribes of the 
Wilderness two hundred years ago. The Mandersons were 
active in the fur trade on the Pennsylvanian border in those 
days, and more than one of them married Indian women. 
Other Indian blood than Montour’s may have descended 
to Manderson, for all I can say, through previous and sub- 
sequent unions; some of the wives’ antecedents were quite 
untraceable, and there were so many generations of pi- 
oneering before the whole country was brought under 
civilization. My researches left me with the idea that 
there is a very great deal of the aboriginal blood present 
in the genealogical make-up of the people of America, 
and that it is very widely spread. The newer families have 
constantly intermarried with the older, and so many of 
them had a strain of the native in them—and were often 
rather proud of it, too, in those days. But Manderson had 
the idea about the disgracefulness of mixed blood, which 
grew much stronger, I fancy, with the rise of the negro 
question after the war. He was thunderstruck at what I 
told him, and was anxious to conceal it from every soul. 
Of course I never gave it away while he lived, and I don’t 
think he supposed I would; but I have thought since that 
his mixed mind took a turn against me from that time 
onward. It happened about a year before his death.’ 
‘Had Manderson,’ asked Mr. Cupples, so unexpectedly 
that the others started, ‘any definable religious attitude?’ 
Marlowe considered a moment. “None that ever I heard 
of,’ he said. ‘Worship and prayer were quite unknown to 
him, so far as I could see, and I never heard him mention 
religion. I should doubt if he had any real sense of God 
at all, or if he was capable of knowing God through the 
emotions. But I understood that as a child he had a re- 


188 


DOUBLE CUNNING 


ligious up-bringing with a strong moral side to it. His pri- 
vate life was, in the usual limited sense, blameless. He was 
almost ascetic in his habits, except as to smoking. I lived 
with him four years without ever knowing him to tell a 
direct verbal falsehood, constantly as he used to practise 
deceit in other forms. Can you understand the soul of a 
man who never hesitated to take steps that would have 
the effect of hoodwinking people, who would use every 
trick of the markets to mislead, and who was at the 
same time scrupulous never to utter a direct lie on the 
most insignificant matter? Manderson was like that, and 
he was not the only one. I suppose you might compare 
the state of mind to that of a soldier who is personally a 
truthful man, but who will stick at nothing to deceive 
the enemy. The rules of the game allow it; and the same 
may be said of business as many business men regard it. 
Only with them it is always war-time.’ 

‘Tt is a sad world,’ observed Mr. Cupples. 

‘As you say, Marlowe agreed. “Now I was saying that 
one could always take Manderson’s word if he gave it in a 
definite form. The first time I ever heard him utter a 
downright lie was on the night he died; and hearing it, 
I believe, saved me from being hanged as his murderer.’ 

Marlowe stared at the light above his head, and Trent 
moved impatiently in his chair. ‘Before we come to that,’ 
he said, ‘will you tell us exactly on what footing you were 
with Manderson during the years you were with him?’ 

“We were on very good terms from beginning to end,’ 
answered Marlowe. ‘Nothing like friendship—he was not 
a man for making friends—but the best of terms as be- 
tween a trusted employee and his chief. I went to him as 
private secretary just after getting my degree at Oxford. 
I was to have gone into my father’s business, where I am 
now, but my father suggested that I should see the world 


189 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


for a year or two. So I took this secretaryship, which 
seemed to promise a good deal of varied experience, and 
I had let the year or two run on to four years before the 
end came. The offer came to me through the last thing 
in the world I should have put forward as a qualification 
for a salaried post, and that was chess.’ 

At the word Trent struck his hands together with a 
muttered exclamation. The others looked at him in sur- 
prise. 

‘Chess!’ repeated Trent. ‘Do you know,’ he said, rising 
and approaching Marlowe, ‘what was the first thing I 
noted about you at our first meeting? It was your eye, 
Mr. Marlowe. I couldn’t place it then, but I know now 
where I had seen your eyes before. They were in the head 
of no less a man than the great Nikolay Korchagin, with 
whom I once sat in the same railway carriage for two 
days. I thought I should never forget the chess eye after 
that, but I could not put a name to it when I saw it in you. 
I beg your pardon,’ he ended suddenly, resuming his 
marmoreal attitude in his chair. 

‘I have played the game from my childhood, and with 
good players,’ said Marlowe simply. ‘It is an hereditary 
gift, if you can call it a gift. At the University I was nearly 
as good as anybody there, and I gave most of my brains 
to that and the O.U.D.S. and playing about generally. At 
Oxford, as I dare say you know, inducements to amuse 
oneself at the expense of one’s education are endless, and 
encouraged by the authorities. Well, one day toward the 
end of my last term, Dr. Munro of Queen’s, whom I had 
never defeated, sent for me. He told me that I played a 
fairish game of chess. I said it was very good of him to 
say so. Then he said, “They tell me you hunt, too.” I said, 
“Now and then.” He asked, “Is there anything else you 
can do?” “No,” I said, not much liking the tone of the 


190 


DOUBLE CUNNING 


conyersation—the old man generally succeeded in putting 
people’s backs up. He grunted fiercely, and then told me 
that inquiries were being made on behalf of a wealthy 
American man of business who wanted an English secre- 
tary. Manderson was the name, he said. He seemed never 
to have heard it before, which was quite possible, as he 
never opened a newspaper and had not slept a night out- 
side the college for thirty years. If I could rub up my spell- 
ing—as the old gentleman put it—I might have a good 
chance for the post, as chess and riding and an Oxford 
education were the only indispensable points. 

“Well, I became Manderson’s secretary. For a long time 
I liked the position greatly. When one is attached to an 
active American plutocrat in the prime of life one need 
not have many dull moments. Besides, it made me inde- 
pendent. My father had some serious business reverses 
about that time, and I was glad to be able to do without 
an allowance from him. At the end of the first year Man- 
derson doubled my salary. “It’s big money,” he said, “but 
I guess I don’t lose.” You see, by that time I was doing 
a great deal more than accompany him on horseback in 
the morning and play chess in the evening, which was 
mainly what he had required. I was attending to his 
houses, his farm in Ohio, his shooting in Maine, his 
horses, his cars, and his yacht. I had become a walking 
railway-guide and ‘an expert cigar-buyer. I was always 
learning something. 

‘Well, now you understand what my position was in 
regard to Manderson during the last two or three years 
of my connection with him.'It was a happy life for me on 
the whole. I was busy, my work was varied and interest- 
ing; I had time to amuse myself too, and money to spend. 
At one time I made a fool of myself about a girl, and that 
was not a happy time; but it taught me to understand the 


Ig! 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


great goodness of Mrs. Manderson.’ Marlowe inclined his 
head to Mr. Cupples as he said this. ‘She may choose to 
tell you about it. As for her husband, he had never varied 
in his attitude towards me, in spite of the change that 
came over him in the last months of his life, as you know. 
He treated me well and generously in his unsympathetic 
way, and I never had a feeling that he was less than sat- 
isfied with his bargain—that was the sort of footing we 
lived upon. And it was that continuance of his attitude right 
up to the end that made the revelation so shocking when 
I was suddenly shown, on the night on which he met his 
end, the depth of crazy hatred of myself that was in Man- 
derson’s soul.’ 

The eyes of Trent and Mr. Cupples met for an instant. 

“You never suspected that he hated you before that 
time?’ asked Trent; and Mr. Cupples asked at the same 
moment, “To what did you attribute it?’ 

‘I never guessed until that night,’ answered Marlowe, 
‘that he had the smallest ill-feeling toward me. How long 
it had existed I do not know. I cannot imagine why it 
was there. I was forced to think, when I considered the 
thing in those awful days after his death, that it was a 
case of a madman’s delusion, that he believed me to be 
plotting against him, as they so often do. Some such in- 
sane conviction must have been at the root of it. But who 
can sound the abysses of a lunatic’s fancy? Can you imag- 
ine the state of mind in which a man dooms himself to 
death with the object of delivering someone he hates to 
the hang.ian?’ 

Mr. Cupples moved sharply in his chair. “You say Man- 
derson was responsible for his own death?’ he asked. 

Trent glanced at him with an eye of impatience, and 
resumed his intent watch upon the face of Marlowe. In 
the relief of speech it was now less pale and drawn. 


192 


DOUBLE CUNNING 


‘I do say so, Marlowe answered concisely, and looked 
his questioner in the face. Mr. Cupples nodded. 

‘Before we proceed to the elucidation of your state- 
ment, observed the old gentleman, in a tone of one dis- 
cussing a point of abstract science, ‘it may be remarked 
that the state of mind which you attribute to Mander- 
son——’ 

‘Suppose we have the story first, Trent interrupted, 
gently laying a hand on Mr. Cupples’s arm. ‘You were 
telling us, he went on, turning to Marlowe, ‘how things 
stood between you and Manderson. Now will you tell us 
the facts of what happened that night?’ 

Marlowe flushed at the barely perceptible emphasis 
which Trent laid upon the word ‘facts’. He drew himself 


up. 

‘Bunner and myself dined with Mr. and Mrs. Mander- 
son that Sunday evening, he began, speaking carefully. 
‘It was just like other dinners at which the four of us had 
been together. Manderson was taciturn and gloomy, as we 
had latterly been accustomed to see him. We others kept a 
conversation going. We rose from the table, I suppose, 
about nine. Mrs. Manderson went to the drawing-room, 
and Bunner went up to the hotel to see an acquaintance. 
Manderson asked me to come into the orchard behind the 
house, saying he wished to have a talk. We paced up and 
down the pathway there, out of earshot from the house, 
and Manderson, as he smoked his cigar, spoke to me in 
his cool, deliberate way. He had never seemed more sane, 
or more well-disposed to me. He said he wanted me to 
do him an important service. There was a big thing on. It 
was a secret affair. Bunner knew nothing of it, and the 
less I knew the better. He wanted me to do exactly as he 
directed, and not bother my head about reasons. 

‘This, I may say, was quite characteristic of Mander- 


193 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


son’s method of going to work. If at times he required a 
man to be a mere tool in his hand, he would tell him so. 
He had used me in the same kind of way a dozen times. 
I assured him he could rely on me, and said I was ready. 
“Right now?” he asked. I said of course I was. 

‘He nodded, and said—I tell you his words as well as I 
can recollect them—‘Well, attend to this. There is a man 
in England now who is in this thing with me. He was to 
have left to-morrow for Paris by the noon boat from 
Southampton to Havre. His name is George Harris—at 
least that’s the name he is going by. Do you remember 
that name?” “Yes,” I said, “when I went up to London 
a week ago you asked me to book a cabin in that name 
on the boat that goes to-morrow. I gave you the ticket.” 
“Here it is,” he said, producing it from his pocket. 

‘“Now,” Manderson said to me, poking his cigar-butt 
at me with each sentence in a way he used to have, 
“George Harris cannot leave England to-morrow. I find 
I shall want him where he is. And I want Bunner where 
he is. But somebody has got to go by that boat and take 
certain papers to Paris. Or else my plan is going to fall to 
pieces. Will you go?” I said, “Certainly. I am here to 
obey orders.” 

‘He bit his cigar, and said, “That’s all right; but these 
are not just ordinary orders. Not the kind of thing one 
can ask of a man in the ordinary way of his duty to an 
employer. The point is this. The deal I am busy with is 
one in which neither myself nor anyone known to be 
connected with me must appear as yet. That is vital. But 
these people I am up against know your face as well as 
they know mine. If my secretary is known in certain quar- 
ters to have crossed to Paris at this time and to have in- 
terviewed certain people—and that would be known as 


194 


DOUBLE CUNNING 


soon as it happened—then the game is up.” He threw 
away his cigar-end and looked at me questioningly. 

‘I didn’t like it much, but I liked failing Manderson at 
a pinch still less. I spoke lightly. I said I supposed I should 
have to conceal my identity, and I would do my best. I 
told him I used to be pretty good at make-up. 

“He nodded in approval. He said, “That’s good. I judged 
you would not let me down.” Then he gave me my in- 
structions. “You take the car right now,” he said, “and 
start for Southampton—there’s no train that will fit in. 
You'll be driving all night. Barring accidents, you ought 
to get there by six in the morning. But whenever you ar- 
rive, drive straight to the Bedford Hotel and ask for 
George Harris. If he’s there, tell him you are to go over 
instead of him, and ask him to telephone me here. It 
is very important he should know that at the earliest 
moment possible. But if he isn’t there, that means he has 
got the instructions I wired to-day, and hasn’t gone to 
Southampton. In that case you don’t want to trouble about 
him any more, but just wait for the boat. You can leave 
the car at a garage under a fancy name—mine must not 
be given. See about changing your appearance—I don’t 
care how, so you do it well. Travel by the boat as George 
Harris. Let on to be anything you like, but be careful, 
and don’t talk much to anybody. When you arrive, take 
a room at the Hotel St. Petersbourg. You will receive a 
note or message there, addressed to George Harris, telling 
you where to take the wallet I shall give you. The wallet 
is locked, and you want to ae good care of it. Have you 
got that all clear?” 

‘I repeated the instructions. I asked if I should return 
from Paris after handing over the wallet. “As soon as you 
like,” he said. “And mind this—whatever happens, don’t 


195 


TRENT ’S' LAST CASE 


communicate with me at any stage of the journey. If you 
don’t get the message in Paris at once, just wait until you 
do—days, if necessary. But not a line of any sort to me. 
Understand? Now get ready as quick as you can. I'll go 
with you in the car a little way. Hurry.” 

“That is, as far as I can remember, the exact substance 
of what Manderson said to me that night. I went to my 
room, changed into day clothes, and hastily threw a few 
necessaries into a kit-bag. My mind was in a whirl, not so 
much at the nature of the business as at the suddenness 
of it. I think I remember telling you the last time we met’ 
—he turned to Trent—‘that Manderson shared the na- 
tional fondness for doing things in a story-book style. 
Other things being equal, he delighted in a bit of mysti- 
fication and melodrama, and I told myself that this was 
Manderson all over. I hurried downstairs with my bag 
and rejoined him in the library. He handed me a stout 
leather letter-case, about eight inches by six, fastened with 
a strap with a lock on it. I could just squeeze it into my 
side-pocket. Then I went to get out the car from the ga- 
rage behind the house. 

‘As I was bringing it round to the front a disconcerting 
thought struck me. I remembered that I had only a few 
shillings in my pocket. | 

‘For some time past I had been keeping myself very 
short of cash, and for this reason—which I tell you be- 
cause it is a vital point, as you will see in a minute. I was 
living temporarily on borrowed money. I had always 
been careless about money while I was with Manderson, 
and being a gregarious animal I had made many friends, 
some of them belonging to a New York set that had little 
to do but get rid of the large incomes given them by their 
parents. Still, I was very well paid, and I was too busy 
even to attempt to go very far with them in that amusing 


196 


DOUBLE CUNNING 


occupation. I was still well on the right side of the ledger 
until I began, merely out of curiosity, to play at specula- 
tion. It’s a very old story—particularly in Wall Street. I 
thought it was easy; I was lucky at first; I would always 
be prudent—and so on. Then came the day when I went 
out of my depth. In one week I was separated from my 
roll, as Bunner expressed it when I told him; and I owed 
money too. I had had my lesson. Now in this pass I went to 
Manderson and told him what I had done and how I 
stood. He heard me with a very grim smile, and then, 
with the nearest approach to sympathy I had ever found 
in him, he advanced me a sum on account of my salary 
that would clear me. “Don’t play the markets any more,” 
was all he said. 

‘Now on that Sunday night Manderson knew that I 
was practically without any money in the world. He knew 
that Bunner knew it too. He may have know that I had 
even borrowed a little more from Bunner for pocket- 
money until my next cheque was due, which, owing to 
my anticipation of my salary, would not have been a large 
one. Bear this knowledge of Manderson’s in mind. 

‘As soon as I had brought the car round I went into the 
library and stated the difficulty to Manderson. 

“What followed gave me, slight as it was, my first im- 
pression of something odd being afoot. As soon as I men- 
tioned the word “expenses” his hand went mechanically 
to his left hip-pocket, where he always kept a little case 
containing notes to the value of about a hundred pounds 
in our money. This was such a rooted habit in him that 
_ J was astonished to see him check the movement sudden- 
ly. Then, to my greater amazement, he swore under his 
breath. I had never heard him do this before; but Bunner 
_ had told me that of late he had often shown irritation in 
this way when they were alone. “Has he mislaid his note- 


197 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


case?” was the question that flashed through my mind. 
But it seemed to me that it could not affect his plan at all, 
and I will tell you why. The week before, when I had 
gone up to London to carry out various commissions, in- 
cluding the booking of a berth for Mr. George Harris, I 
had drawn a thousand pounds for Manderson from his 
bankers, and all, at his request, in notes of small amounts. 
I did not know what this unusually large sum in cash was 
for, but I did know that the packets of notes were in his 
locked desk in the library, or had been earlier in the day, 
when I had seen him fingering them as he sat at the desk. 

‘But instead of turning to the desk, Manderson stood 
looking at me. There was fury in his face, and it was a 
strange sight to see him gradually master it until his eyes 
grew cold again. “Wait in the car,” he said slowly. “I will 
get some money.” We both went out, and as I was getting 
into my overcoat in the hall I saw him enter the drawing- 
room, which, you remember, was on the other side of the 
entrance hall. 

‘I stepped out onto the lawn before the house and smoked 
a cigarette, pacing up and down. I was asking myself 
again and again where that thousand pounds was; wheth- 
er it was in the drawing-room; and if so, why. Presently, 
as I passed one of the drawing-room windows, I noticed 
Mrs. Manderson’s shadow on the thin silk curtain. She 
was standing at her escritoire. The window was open, and 
as I passed I heard her say, “I have not quite thirty pounds 
here. Will that be enough?” I did not hear the answer, 
but next moment Manderson’s shadow was mingled with 
hers, and I heard the chink of money. Then, as he stood 
by the window, and as I was moving away, these words of 
his came to my ears—and these at least I can repeat ex- 
actly, for astonishment stamped them on my memory— 
“T’m going out now. Marlowe has persuaded me to go for 

198 


DOUBLE CUNNING 


a moonlight run in the car. He is very urgent about it. He 
says it will help me to sleep, and I guess he is right.” 

‘I have told you that in the course of four years I had 
never once heard Manderson utter a direct lie about any- 
thing, great or small. I believed that I understood the 
man’s queer, skin-deep morality, and I could have sworn 
that if he was firmly pressed with a question that could 
not be evaded he would either refuse to answer or tell the 
truth. But what had I just heard? No answer to any ques- 
tion. A voluntary statement, precise in terms, that was 
utterly false. The unimaginable had happened. It was al- 
most as if someone I knew well, in a moment of closest 
sympathy, had suddenly struck me in the face. The blood 
rushed to my head, and I stood still on the grass. I stood 
there until I heard his step at the front door, and then I 
pulled myself together and stepped quickly to the car. He 
handed me a banker’s paper bag with gold and notes in 
it. “There’s more than you'll want there,” he said, and I 
pocketed it mechanically. 

‘For a minute or so I stood discussing with Manderson 
—it was by one of those tours de force of which one’s 
mind is capable under great excitement—certain points 
about the route of the long drive before me. I had made 
the run several times by day, and I believe I spoke quite 
calmly and naturally about it. But while I spoke my mind 
was seething in a flood of suddenly-born suspicion and 
fear. I did not know what I feared. I simply felt fear, 
~somehow—I did not know how—connected with Man- 
derson. My soul once opened to it, fear rushed in like 
an assaulting army. I felt—I knew—that something was 
altogether wrong and sinister, and I felt myself to be the 
object of it. Yet Manderson was surely no enemy of mine. 
Then my thoughts reached out wildly for an answer to 
the question why he had told that lie. And all the time 


199 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


the blood hammered in my ears, “Where is that money?” 
Reason struggled hard to set up the suggestion that the © 
two things were not necessarily connected. The instinct 
of a man in danger would not listen to it. As we started, 
and the car took the curve into the road, it was merely 
the unconscious part of me that steered and controlled it, 
and that made occasional empty remarks as we slid along 
in the moonlight. Within me was a confusion and vague 
alarm that was far worse than any definite terror I ever 
felt. 

‘About a mile from the house, you remember, one 
passed on one’s left a gate, on the other side of which 
was the golf-course. There Manderson said he would get 
down, and I stopped the car. “You've got it all clear?” he 
asked. With a sort of wrench I forced myself to remem- 
ber and repeat the directions given me. “That’s O.K.” he 
said. “Good-bye, then. Stay with that wallet.” Those were 
the last words I heard him speak, as the car moved gently 
away from him.’ 

Marlowe rose from his chair and pressed his hands to 
his eyes. He was flushed with the excitement of his own 
narrative, and there was in his look a horror of recollec- 
tion that held both listeners silent. He shook himself with 
a movement like a dog’s, and then, his hands behind him, 
stood erect before the fire as he continued his tale. 

‘I expect you both know what the back-reflector of a 
motor car is.’ 

Trent nodded quickly, his face alive ith anticipation ; 
but Mr. Cupples, who cherished a mild but obstinate prej- 
udice against motor cars, readily confessed to ignorance. 

‘It is a small round or more often rectangular mirror,’ 
Marlowe explained, ‘rigged out from the right side of the 
screen in front of the driver, and adjusted in such a way 
that he can see, without turning round, if anything is 

200 


DOUBLE CUNNING 


coming up behind to pass him. It is quite an ordinary ap- 
pliance, and there was one on this car. As the car moved 
on, and Manderson ceased speaking behind me, I saw in 
that mirror a thing that I wish I could forget.’ 

Marlowe was silent for a moment, staring at the wall 
before him. 

‘Manderson’s face,’ he said in a low tone. ‘He was stand- 
ing in the road, looking after me, only a few yards behind, 
and the moonlight was full on his face. The mirror hap- 
pened to catch it for an instant. 

‘Physical habit is a wonderful thing. I did not shift hand 
or foot on the controlling mechanism of the car. Indeed, I 
dare say it steadied me against the shock to have myself 
braced to the business of driving. You have read in books, 
no doubt, of hell looking out of a man’s eyes, but perhaps 
you don’t know what a good metaphor that is. If I had 
not known Manderson was there, I should not have recog- 
nized the face. It was that of a madman, distorted, hideous 
a” the imbecility of hate, the teeth bared in a simian grin 
of ferocity and triumph; the eyes. . . . In the little mirror 
I had this glimpse of the face alone. I saw nothing of 
whatever gesture there may have been as that writhing 
white mask glared after me. And I saw it only for a flash. 
The car went on, gathering speed, and as it went, my 
brain, suddenly purged of the vapours of doubt and per- 
plexity, was as busy as the throbbing engine before my 
feet. I knew. 

“You say something in that manuscript of yours, Mr. 
Trent, about the swift automatic way in which one’s ideas 
arrange themselves about some new illuminating thought. 
It is quite true. The awful intensity of ill-will that had 
flamed after me from those straining eyeballs had poured 
over my mind like a searchlight. I was thinking quite 
clearly now, and almost coldly, for I knew what—at least 


201 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


I knew whom—I had to fear, and instinct warned me that 
it was not a time to give room to the emotions that were 
fighting to possess me. The man hated me insanely. That 
incredible fact I suddenly knew. But the face had told me, 
it would have told anybody, more than that. It was a face 
of hatred gratified, it proclaimed some damnable triumph. 
It had gloated over me driving away to my fate. This too 
was plain to me. And to what fate? 

‘I stopped the car. It had gone about two hundred and 
fifty yards, and a sharp bend of the road hid the spot 
where I had set Manderson down. I lay back in the seat 
and thought it out. Something was to happen to me. In 
Paris? Probably—why else should I be sent there, with 
money and a ticket? But why Paris? That puzzled me, 
for I had no melodramatic ideas about Paris. I put the 
point aside for a moment. I turned to the other things 
that had roused my attention that evening. The lie about 
my “persuading him to go for a moonlight run.” What 
was the intention of that? Manderson, I said to myself, 
will be returning without me while I am on my way to 
Southampton. What will he tell them about me? How 
account for his returning alone, and without the car? As 
I asked myself that sinister question there rushed into my 
mind the last of my difficulties: “Where are the thousand 
pounds?” And in the same instant came the answer: “The 
thousand pounds are in my pocket.” 

‘I got up and stepped from the car. My knees trembled 
and I felt very sick. I saw the plot now, as I thought. The 
whole of the story about the papers and the necessity of 
their being taken to Paris was a blind. With Manderson’s 
money about me, of which he would declare I had robbed 
him, I was, to all appearance, attempting to escape from — 
England, with every precaution that guilt could suggest. 
He would communicate with the police at once, and 


202 


DOUBLE CUNNING 


would know how to put them on my track. I should be 
arrested in Paris, if I got so far, living under a false name, 
after having left the car under a false name, disguised my- 
self, and travelled in a cabin which I had booked in ad- 
vance, also under a false name. It would be plainly the 
crime of a man without money, and for some reason 
desperately in want of it. As for my account of the affair, 
it would be too preposterous. 

‘As this ghastly array of incriminating circumstances 
rose up before me, I dragged the stout letter-case from my 
pocket. In the intensity of the moment, I never entertained 
the faintest doubt that I was right, and that the money 
was there. It would easily hold the packets of notes. But 
as I felt it and weighed it in my hands it seemed to me 
there must be more than this. It was too bulky. What 
more was to be laid to my charge? After all, a thousand 
pounds was not much to tempt a man like myself to run 
the risk of penal servitude. In this new agitation, scarcely 
knowing what I did, I caught the surrounding strap in 
my fingers just above the fastening and tore the staple out 
of the lock. Those locks, you know, are pretty flimsy as a 
rule.’ 

Here Marlowe paused and walked to the oaken desk 
before the window. Opening a drawer full of miscella- 
neous objects, he took out a box of odd keys, and selected 
a small one distinguished by a piece of pink tape. 

He handed it to Trent. ‘I keep that by me as a sort of 
morbid memento. It is the key to the lock I smashed. I 
might have saved myself the trouble, if I had known that 
this key was at that moment in the left-hand side-pocket 
of my overcoat. Manderson must have slipped it in, either 
while the coat was hanging in the hall or while he sat at 
my side in the car. I might not have found the tiny thing 
there for weeks: as a matter of fact I did find it in two 

203 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


days after Manderson was dead, but a police search would 
have found it in five minutes. And then I—I with the 
case and its contents in my pocket, my false name and my 
sham spectacles and the rest of it—I should have had no 
explanation to offer but the highly convincing one that I 
didn’t know the key was there.’ 

Trent dangled the key by its tape idly. Then: ‘How do 
you know this is the key of that case?’ he asked quickly. 

‘I tried it. As soon as I found it I went up and fitted it 
to the lock. I knew where I had left the thing. So do you, 
I think, Mr. Trent. Don’t you?’ There was a faint shade 
of mockery in Marlowe’s voice. 

‘Touché; Trent said, with a dry smile. ‘I found a large 
empty letter-case with a burst lock lying with other odds 
and ends on the dressing-table in Manderson’s room. Your 
statement is that you put it there. I could make nothing 
of it.’ He closed his lips. 

“There was no reason for hiding it,’ said Marlowe. “But 
to get back to my story. I burst the lock of the strap. I 
opened the case before one of the lamps of the car. The 
first thing I found in it I ought to have expected, of 
course, but I hadn’t.’ He paused and glanced at Trent. 

‘It was——’ began Trent mechanically, and then stopped 
himself. “Try not to bring me in any more, if you don’t 
mind,’ he said, meeting the other’s eye. ‘I have compli- 
mented you already in that document on your cleverness. 
You need not prove it by making the judge help you out 
with your evidence.’ 

‘All right,’ agreed Marlowe. ‘I couldn’t resist just that 
much. If you had been in my place you would have 
known before I did that Manderson’s little pocket-case 
was there. As soon as I saw it, of course, I remembered 
his not having had it about him when I asked for money, 
and his surprising anger. He had made a false step. He 


204 


DOUBLE CUNNING 


had already fastened his note-case up with the rest of what 
was to figure as my plunder, and placed it in my hands. 
I opened it. It contained a few notes as usual, I didn’t 
count them. 

“Tucked into the flaps of the big case in packets were 
the other notes, just as I had brought them from London. 
And with them were two small wash-leather bags, the 
look of which I knew well. My heart jumped sickeningly 
again, for this, too, was utterly unexpected. In those bags 
Manderson kept the diamonds in which he had been in- 
vesting for some time past. I didn’t open them; I could 
feel the tiny stones shifting under the pressure of my fin- 
gers. How many thousands of pounds’ worth there were 
there I have no idea. We had regarded Manderson’s dia- 
mond-buying as merely a speculative fad. I believe now 
that it was the earliest movement in the scheme for my 
ruin. For anyone like myself to be represented as having 
robbed him, there ought to be a strong inducement shown. 
That had been provided with a vengeance. 

‘Now, I thought, I have the whole thing plain, and I 
must act. I saw instantly what I must do. I had left Man- 
derson about a mile from the house. It would take him 
twenty minutes, fifteen if he walked fast, to get back to 
the house, where he would, of course, immediately tell 
his story of robbery, and probably telephone at once to the 
police in Bishopsbridge. I had left him only five or six 
minutes ago; for all that I have told you was as quick 
thinking as I ever did. It would be easy to overtake him 
in the car before he neared the house. There would be an 
awkward interview. I set ‘my teeth as I thought of it, and 
all my fears vanished as I began to savour the gratifica- 
tion of telling him my opinion of him. There are prob- 
ably few people who ever positively looked forward to an 
awkward interview with Manderson; but I was mad with 

205 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


rage. My honour and my liberty had been plotted against 
with detestable treachery. I did not consider what would 
follow the interview. That would arrange itself. 

‘I had started and turned the car, I was already going 
fast toward White Gables, when I heard the sound of a 
shot in front of me, to the right. 

‘Instantly I stopped the car. My first wild thought was 
that Manderson was shooting at me. Then I realized that 
the noise had not been close at hand. I could see nobody on 
the road, though the moonlight flooded it. I had left Man- 
derson at a spot just round the corner that was now about 
a hundred yards ahead of me. After a minute or so, I 
started again, and turned the corner at a slow pace. Then 
I stopped again with a jar, and for a moment I sat per- 
fectly still. 

“Manderson lay dead a few steps from me on the turf 
within the gate, clearly visible to me in the moonlight.’ 

Marlowe made another pause, and Trent, with a puck- 
ered brow, inquired, ‘On the golf-course?’ 

‘Obviously,’ remarked Mr. Cupples. “The eighth green 
is just there.’ He had grown more and more interested as 
Marlowe went on, and was now playing feverishly with 
his thin beard. 

‘On the green, quite close to the flag,’ said Marlowe. “He 
lay on his back, his arms were stretched abroad, his jacket 
and heavy overcoat were open; the light shone hideously 
on his white face and his shirt-front; it glistened on his 
bared teeth and one of the eyes. The other . . . you saw 
it. The man was certainly dead. As I sat there stunned, 
unable for the moment to think at all, I could even see a 
deep dark line of blood running down from the shattered 
socket to the ear. Close by lay his soft black hat, and at 
his feet a pistol. 

‘I suppose it was only a few seconds that I sat helplessly 


206 | 


DOUBLE CUNNING 


staring at the body. Then I rose and moved to it with 
dragging feet; for now the truth had come to me at last, 
and I realized the fullness of my appalling danger. It was 
not only my liberty or my honour that the maniac had 
undermined. It was death that he had planned for me; 
death with the degradation of the scaffold. To strike me 
down with certainty, he had not hesitated to end his life; 
a life which was, no doubt, already threatened by a mel- 
ancholic impulse to self-destruction; and the last agony 
of the suicide had been turned, perhaps, to a devilish joy 
by the thought that he dragged down my life with him. 
For as far as I could see at the moment my situation was 
utterly hopeless. If it had been desperate on the assump- 
tion that Manderson meant to denounce me as a thief, 
what was it now that his corpse denounced me as a mur- 
derer? 

‘I picked up the revolver and saw, almost without emo- 
tion, that it was my own. Manderson had taken it from 
my room, I suppose, while I was getting out the car. At 
the same moment I remembered that it was by Mander- 
son’s suggestion that I had had it engraved with my ini- 
tials to distinguish it from a precisely similar weapon 
which he had of his own. 

‘I bent over the body and satisfied myself that there was 
no life left in it. I must tell you here that I did not notice, 
then or afterwards, the scratches and marks on the wrists, 
which were taken as evidence of a struggle with an as- 
- sailant. But I have no doubt that Manderson deliberately 
_ injured himself in this way before firing the shot; it was 
a part of his plan. , 

‘Though I never perceived that detail, however, it was 
evident enough as I looked at the body that Manderson 
had not forgotten, in his last act on earth, to tie me tight- 
er by putting out of court the question of suicide. He had 

207 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


clearly been at pains to hold the pistol at arm’s length, 
and there was not a trace of smoke or of burning on the 
face. The wound was absolutely clean, and was already 
ceasing to bleed outwardly. I rose and paced the green, 
reckoning up the points in the crushing case against me. 

‘I was the last to be seen with Manderson. I had per- 
suaded him—so he had lied to his wife and, as I after- 
wards knew, to the butler—to go with me for the drive 
from which he never returned. My pistol had killed him. 
It was true that by discovering his plot I had saved myself 
from heaping up further incriminating facts—flight, con- 
cealment, the possession of the treasure. But what need 
of them, after all? As I stood, what hope was there? What 
could I do?’ 

Marlowe came to the table and leaned forward with 
his hands upon it. ‘I want,’ he said very earnestly, ‘to try 
to make you understand what was in my mind when I 
decided to do what I did. I hope you won't be bored, be- 
cause I must do it. You may both have thought I acted like 
a fool. But after all the police never suspected me. I walked 
that green for a quarter of an hour, I suppose, thinking 
the thing out like a game of chess. I had to think ahead 
and think coolly; for my safety depended on upsetting 
the plans of one of the longest-headed men who ever 
lived. And remember that, for all I knew, there were de- 
tails of the scheme still hidden from me, waiting to crush 
me. 

“Two plain courses presented themselves at once. Either 
of them, I thought, would certainly prove fatal. I could, 
in the first place, do the completely straightforward thing: 
take back the dead man, tell my story, hand over the 
notes and diamonds, and trust to the saving power of 
truth and innocence. I could have laughed as I thought of 
it. I saw myself bringing home the corpse and giving an 

208 } | 


DOUBLE CUNNING 


account of myself, boggling with sheer shame over the 
absurdity of my wholly unsupported tale, as I brought a 
charge of mad hatred and fiendish treachery against a 
man who had never, as far as I knew, had a word to say 
against me. At every turn the cunning of Manderson had 
forestalled me. His careful concealment of such a hatred 
was a characteristic feature of the stratagem; only a man 
of his iron self-restraint could have done it. You can see 
for yourselves how every fact in my statement would ap- 
pear, in the shadow of Manderson’s death, a clumsy lie. 
I tried to imagine myself telling such a story to the coun- 
sel for my defence. I could see the face with which he 
would listen to it; I could read in the lines of it his 
thought, that to put forward such an impudent farrago 
would mean merely the disappearance of any chance 
there might be of a commutation of the capital sentence. 

“True, I had not fled. I had brought back the body; I 
had handed over the property. But how did that help me? 
It would only suggest that I had yielded to a sudden funk 
after killing my man, and had no nerve left to clutch at 
the fruits of the crime; it would suggest, perhaps, that I 
had not set out to kill but only to threaten, and that when 
I found that I had done murder the heart went out of me. 
Turn it which way I would, 1 could see no hope of escape 
by this plan of action. 

‘The second of the obvious things that I might do was 
to take the hint offered by the situation, and to fly at once. 
That too must prove fatal. There was the body. I had no 
time to hide it in such a way that it would not be found 
at the first systematic search. But whatever I should do 
with the body, Manderson’s not returning to the house 
would cause uneasiness in two or three hours at most. 
Martin would suspect an accident to the car, and would 
telephone to the police. At daybreak the roads would be 


209 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


scoured and inquiries telegraphed in every direction. The 
police would act on the possibility of there being foul 
play. They would spread their nets with energy in such 
a big business as the disappearance of Manderson. Ports 
and railway termini would be watched. Within twenty- 
four hours the body would be found, and the whole coun- 
try would be on the alert for me—all Europe, scarcely 
less; I did not believe there was a spot in Christendom 
where the man accused of Manderson’s murder could pass 
unchallenged, with every newspaper crying the fact of his 
death into the ears of all the world. Every stranger would 
be suspect; every man, woman, and child would be a de- 
tective. The car, wherever I should abandon it, would put 
people on my track. If I had to choose between two ut- 
terly hopeless courses, I decided, I would take that of tell- 
ing the preposterous truth. 

‘But now I cast about desperately for some tale that 
would seem more plausible than the truth. Could I save 
my neck by a lie? One after another came into my mind; 
I need not trouble to remember them now. Each had its 
own futilities and perils; but every one split upon the fact 
—or what would be taken for fact—that I had induced 
Manderson to go out with me, and the fact that he had 
never returned alive. Notion after notion I swiftly rejected 
as I paced there by the dead man, and doom seemed to 
settle down upon me more heavily as the moments passed. 
Then a strange thought came tome. 

‘Several times I had repeated to myself half-consciously, 
as a sort of refrain, the words in which I had heard Man- 
derson tell his wife that I had induced him to go out. 
‘Marlowe has persuaded me to go for a moonlight run in 
the car. He is very urgent about it.’ All at once it struck 
me that, without meaning to do so, I was saying this in 
Manderson’s voice. 


210 


DOUBLE CUNNING 


‘As you found out for yourself, Mr. Trent, I have a nat- 
ural gift of mimicry. I had imitated Manderson’s voice 
many times so successfully as to deceive even Bunner, 
who had been much more in his company than his own 
wife. It was, you remember’-—Marlowe turned to Mr. Cup- 
ples—‘a strong, metallic voice, of great carrying power, 
so unusual as to make it a very fascinating voice to imi- 
tate, and at the same time very easy. I said the words care- 
fully to myself again, like this——’ he uttered them, and 
Mr. Cupples opened his eyes in amazement—‘and then I 
struck my hand upon the low wall beside me. “Mander- 
son never returned alive?” I said aloud. “But Manderson 
shall return alive!” 

‘In thirty seconds the bare outline of the plan was com- 
plete in my mind. I did not wait to think over details. 
Every instant was precious now. I lifted the body and laid 
it on the floor of the car, covered with a rug. I took the 
hat and the revolver. Not one trace remained on the 
green, I believe, of that night’s work. As I drove back to 
White Gables my design took shape before me with a 
rapidity and ease that filled me with a wild excitement. 
I should escape yet! It was all so easy if I kept my pluck. 
Putting aside the unusual and unlikely, I should not fail. 
I wanted to shout, to scream! 

“Nearing the house I slackened speed, and carefully re- 
connoitred the road. Nothing was moving. ! turned the 
car into the open field on the other side of the road, about 
twenty paces short of the little door at the extreme corner 
_ of the grounds. I brought it to rest behind a stack. When, 
with Manderson’s hat on my head and the pistol in my 
pocket, I had staggered with the body across the moonlit 
road and through that door, I left much of my apprehen- 
sion behind me. With swift action and an unbroken nerve 
I thought I ought to succeed.’ 

211 


TRENT ’S LAST CASE 


With a long sigh Marlowe threw himself into one of 
the deep chairs at the fireside and passed his handkerchief 
over his damp forehead. Each of his hearers, too, drew a 
deep breath, but not audibly. 

‘Everything else you know,’ he said. He took a cigarette 
from a box beside him and lighted it. Trent watched the 
very slight quiver of the hand that held the match, and 
privately noted that his own was at the moment not so 
steady. 

‘The shoes that betrayed me to you, pursued Marlowe 
after a short silence, ‘were painful all the time I wore 
them, but I never dreamed that they had given anywhere. 
I knew that no footstep of mine must appear by any acci- 
dent in the soft ground about the hut where I laid the 
body, or between the hut and the house, so I took the 
shoes off and crammed my feet into them as soon as I 
was inside the little door. I left my own shoes, with my 
own jacket and overcoat, near the body, ready to be re- 
sumed later. I made a clear footmark on the soft gravel 
outside the French window, and several on the drugget 
round the carpet. The stripping off of the outer clothing 
of the body, and the dressing of it afterwards in the brown 
suit and shoes, and putting the things into the pockets, 
was a horrible business; and getting the teeth out of the 
mouth was worse. The head—but you don’t want to hear 
about it. I didn’t feel it much at the time. I was wriggling 
my own head out of a noose, you see. I -wish I had thought 
of pulling down the cuffs, and had tied the shoes more 
neatly. And putting the watch in the wrong pocket was 
a bad mistake. It had all to be done so hurriedly. 

“You were wrong, by the way, about the whisky. After ~ 
one stifish drink I had no more; but I filled up a flask 
that was in the cupboard and pocketed it. I had a night 
of peculiar anxiety and effort in front of me, and I didn’t 


212 


DOUBLE CUNNING 


know how I should stand it. I had to take some once or 
twice during the drive. Speaking of that, you give rather 
a generous allowance of time in your document for doing 
that run by night. You say that to get to Southampton 
by half-past six in that car, under the conditions, a man 
must, even if he drove like a demon, have left Marlstone 
by twelve at latest. I had not got the body dressed in the 
other suit, with tie and watch-chain and so forth, until 
nearly ten minutes past; and then I had to get tothe car and 
start it going. But then I don’t suppose any other man 
would have taken the risks I did in that car at night, with- 
out a head-light. It turns me cold to think of it now. 
“There’s nothing much to say about what I did in the 
house. I spent the time after Martin had left me in care- 
fully thinking over the remaining steps in my plan, while 
I unloaded and thoroughly cleaned the revolver, using my 
handkerchief and a penholder from the desk. I also placed 
the packets of notes, the note-case, and the diamonds in 
the roll-top desk, which I opened and relocked with Man- 
derson’s key. When I went upstairs it was a trying mo- 
ment, for though I was safe from the eyes of Martin, as 
he sat in his pantry, there was a faint possibility of some- 
body being about on the bedroom floor. I had sometimes 
found the French maid wandering about there when the 
other servants were in bed. Bunner, I knew, was a deep 
sleeper. Mrs. Manderson, I had gathered from things I 
had heard her say, was usually asleep by eleven; I had 
thought it possible that her gift of sleep had helped her 
to retain all her beauty and vitality in spite of a marriage 
_ which we all knew was an unhappy one. Still it was un- 
easy work mounting the stairs, and holding myself ready 
to retreat to the library again at the least sound from 
above. But nothing happened. 3 
‘The first thing I did on reaching the corridor was to 


233 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


enter my room and put the revolver and cartridges back 
in the case. Then I turned off the light and went She 
into Manderson’s room. 

“What I had to do there you know. I had to take off the 
shoes and put them outside the door, leave Manderson’s 
jacket, waistcoat, trousers, and black tie, after taking ev- 
erything out of the pockets, select a suit and tie and shoes 
for the body, and place the dental plate in the bowl, which 
I moved from the washing-stand to the bedside, leaving 
those ruinous finger-marks as I did so. The marks on the 
drawer must have been made when I shut it after taking 
out the tie. Then I had to lie down in the bed and tumble it. 
You know all about it—all except my state of mind, which 
you couldn’t imagine and I couldn’t describe. 

“The worst came when I had hardly begun my opera- 
tions: the moment when Mrs. Manderson spoke from the 
room where I supposed her asleep. I was prepared for it 
happening; it was a possibility; but I nearly lost my nerve 
all the same. However. ... 

‘By the way, I may tell you this: in the extremely un- 
likely contingency of Mrs. Manderson remaining awake, 
and so putting out of the question my escape by way of 
her window, I had planned simply to remain where I was 
a few hours, and then, not speaking to her, to leave the 
house quickly and quietly by the ordinary way. Martin 
would have been in bed by that time. I might have been 
heard to leave, but not seen. I should have done just as I 
_ had planned with the body, and then made the best time I 
could in the car to Southampton. The difference would 
have been that I couldn’t have furnished an unquestion- 
able alibi by turning up at the hotel at 6.30. I should have 
made the best of it by driving straight to the docks, and 
making my ostentatious inquiries there. I could in any 
case have got there long before the boat left at noon. I 

214 


DOUBLE CUNNING 


couldn’t see that anybody could suspect me of the sup- 
posed murder in any case; but if anyone had, and if I 
hadn’t arrived until ten o'clock, say, I shouldn’t have been 
able to answer, “It is impossible for me to have got to 
Southampton so soon after shooting him.” I should sim- 
ply have had to say I was delayed by a breakdown after 
leaving Manderson at half-past ten, and challenged any- 
one to produce any fact connecting me with the crime. 
They couldn’t have done it. The pistol, left openly in my 
room, might have been used by anybody, even if it could 
be proved that that particular pistol was used. Nobody 
could reasonably connect me with the shooting so long 
as it was believed that it was Manderson who had re- 
turned to the house. The suspicion could not, I was confi- 
dent, enter anyone’s mind. All the same, I wanted to intro- 
duce the element of absolute physical impossibility; I knew 
I should feel ten times as safe with that. So when I knew 
from the sound of her breathing that Mrs. Manderson was 
asleep again, I walked quickly across her room in my 
_ stocking feet, and was on.the grass with my bundle in ten 
seconds. I don’t think I made the least noise. The curtain 
before the window was of soft, thick stuff and didn’t rus- 
tle, and when I pushed the glass doors farther open there 
was not a sound.’ 

“Tell me,’ said Trent, as the other stopped to light a new 
cigarette, ‘why you took the risk of going through Mrs. 
Manderson’s room to escape from the house. I could see 
when I looked into the thing on the spot why it had to 
be on that side of the house; there was a danger of being 
seen by Martin, or by some servant at a bedroom window, 
if you got out by a window on one of the other sides. But 
there were three unoccupied rooms on that side; two 
spare bedrooms and Mrs. Manderson’s sitting-room. I ~ 
should have thought it would have been safer, after you 


215 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


had done what was necessary to your plan in Mander- 
son’s room, to leave it quietly and escape through one of 
those three rooms. .. . The fact that you went through 
her window, you know,’ he added coldly, ‘would have 
suggested, if it became known, various suspicions in re- 
gard to the lady herself. I think you understand me.’ 

Marlowe turned upon him with a glowing face. ‘And 
I think you will understand me, Mr. Trent,’ he said in a 
voice that shook a little, ‘when I say that if such a possi- 
bility had occurred to me then, I would have taken any 
risk rather than make my escape by that way. .. . Oh, 
well!’ he went on more coolly, ‘I suppose that to anyone 
who didn’t know her, the idea of her being privy to her 
husband’s murder might not seem so indescribably fatu- 
ous. Forgive the expression.’ He looked attentively at the 
burning end of his cigarette, studiously unconscious of the 
red flag that flew in Trent’s eyes for an instant at his 
words and the tone of them. 

That emotion, however, was conquered at once. ‘Your 
remark is perfectly just, Trent said with answering cool- 
ness. ‘I can quite believe, too, that at the time you didn’t 
think of the possibility I mentioned. But surely, apart from 
that, it would have been safer to do as I said; go by the 
window of an unoccupied room,’ 

‘Do you think so?’ said Marlowe. ‘All I can say is, I 
hadn’t the nerve to do it. I tell you, when I entered Man- 
derson’s room I shut the door of it on more than half 
my terrors. I had the problem confined before me in a 
closed space, with only one danger in it, and that a known 
danger: the danger of Mrs. Manderson. The thing was 
almost done; I had only to wait until she was certainly 
asleep after her few moments of waking up, for which, as 
I told you, I was prepared as a possibility. Barring acci- 
dents, the way was clear. But now suppose that I, carrying 


216 


DOUBLE CUNNING 


Manderson’s clothes and shoes; had opened that door 
again and gone in my shirt-sleeves and socks to enter one 
of the empty rooms. The moonlight was flooding the cor- 
ridor through the end window. Even if my face was con- 
cealed, nobody could mistake my standing figure for Man- 
derson’s. Martin might be going about the house in his 
silent way. Bunner might come out of his bedroom. One 
of the servants who were supposed to be in bed might 
come round the corner from the other passage—I had 
found Célestine prowling about quite as late as it was 
then. None of these things was very likely; but they were 
all too likely for me. They were uncertainties. Shut off 
from the household in Manderson’s room I knew exactly 
what I had to face. As I lay in my clothes in Manderson’s 
bed and listened for the almost inaudible breathing 
through the open door, I felt far more ease of mind, ter- 
rible as my anxiety was, than I had felt since I saw the 
dead body on the turf. I even congratulated myself that I 
had had the chance, through Mrs. Manderson’s speaking 
to me, of tightening one of the screws in my scheme by 
repeating the statement about my having been sent to 
Southampton.’ 

Marlowe looked at Trent, who nodded as who should 
say that his point was met. 

‘As for Southampton,’ pursued Matiower you know 
what I did when I got there, I have no doubt. I had de- 
cided to take Manderson’s story about the mysterious Har- 
ris and act it out on my own lines. It was a carefully pre- 
pared lie, better than anything I could improvise. I even 
went so far as to get through a trunk call to the hotel at 
Southampton from the library before starting, and ask if 
Harris was there..As I expected, he wasn’t.’ 

‘Was that why you telephoned?’ Trent inquired 
quickly. 

217 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


‘The reason for telephoning was to get myself into an 
attitude in which Martin couldn’t see my face or anything 
but the jacket and hat, yet which was a natural and fa- 
miliar attitude. But while I was about it, it was obviously 
better to make a genuine call. If I had simply pretended 
to be telephoning, the people at the Exchange could have 
told you at once that there hadn’t been a call from White 
Gables that night.’ 

‘One of the first things I did was to make that inquiry, 
said Trent. “That telephone call, and the wire you sent 
from Southampton to the dead man to say Harris hadn’t 
turned up, and you were returning—I particularly appre- 
ciated both those.’ 

A constrained smile lighted Marlowe’s face for a mo- 
ment. ‘I don’t know that there’s anything more to tell. I 
returned to Marlstone, and faced your friend the detective 
with such nerve as I had left. The worst was when I heard 
you had been put on the case—no, that wasn’t the worst. 
The worst was when I saw you walk out of the shrubbery 
the next day, coming away from the shed where I had laid 
the body. For one ghastly moment I thought you were go- 
ing to give me in charge on the spot. Now I’ve told you ev- 
erything, you don’t look so terrible.’ 

He closed his eyes, and there was a short silence. Then 
Trent got suddenly to his feet. 

‘Cross-examination ?’ inquired Marlowe, looking at him 
gravely. 

‘Not at all,’ said Trent, stretching his long limbs. ‘Only 
stiffness of the legs. I don’t want to ask any questions. I 
believe what you have told us. I don’t believe it simply 
because I always liked your face, or because it saves awk- 
wardness, which are the most usual reasons for believing 
a person, but because my vanity will have it that no man 
could lie to me steadily for an hour without my perceiv- 

218 


DOUBLE CUNNING 


ing it. Your story is an extraordinary one; but Manderson 
was an extraordinary man, and so are you. You acted like 
a lunatic in doing what you did; but I quite agree with 
you that if you had acted like a sane man you wouldn’t 
have had the hundredth part of a dog’s chance with a 
judge and jury. One thing is beyond dispute on any read- 
ing of the affair: you are a man of courage.’ 

The colour rushed into Marlowe’s face, and he hesi- 
tated for words. Before he could speak Mr. Cupples arose 
with a dry cough. 

‘For my part,’ he said, ‘I never supposed you guilty for 
a moment.’ Marlowe turned to him in grateful amaze- 
ment, Trent with an incredulous stare. ‘But,’ pursued Mr. 
Cupples, holding up his hand, ‘there is one question which 
I should like to put.’ 

Marlowe bowed, saying nothing. 

‘Suppose,’ said Mr. Cupples, ‘that someone else had been 
suspected of the crime and put upon trial. What would 
you have done?’ | 

‘T think my duty was clear. I should have gone with my 
story to the lawyers for the defence, and put myself in 
their hands.’ 

Trent laughed aloud. Now that the thing was over, his 
spirits were rapidly becoming ungovernable. ‘I can see 
their faces!’ he said. ‘As a matter of fact, though, nobody 
else was ever in danger. There wasn’t a shred of evidence 
against anyone. I looked up Murch at the Yard this morn- 
ing, and he told me he had come round to Bunner’s view, 
that it was a case of revenge on the part of some Ameri- 
can black-hand gang. So there’s the end of the Manderson 
case. Holy, suffering Moses! W haz an ass a man can make 
himself when he thinks he’s being preternaturally clever!’ 
He seized the bulky envelope from the table and stuffed 
_ it into the heart of the fire. “‘There’s for you, old friend! 
21g 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


For want of you the world’s course will not fail. But look 
here! It’s getting late—nearly seven, and Cupples and I 
have an appointment at half-past. We must go. Mr. Mar- 
lowe, good-bye.’ He looked into the other’s eyes. ‘I am a 
man who has worked hard to put a rope round your 
neck. Considering the circumstances, I don’t know wheth- 
er you will blame me. Will you shake hands?’ 


Chapter XVI 


THE LAST STRAW 


f HAT was that you said about our having an ap- 

\¢ pointment at half-past seven?’ asked Mr. Cup- 
ples as the two came out of the great gateway of the pile 
of flats. ‘Have we such an appointment?’ 

‘Certainly we have,’ replied Trent. “You are dining with 
me. Only one thing can properly celebrate this occasion, 
and that is a dinner for which I pay. No, no! I asked you 
first. I have got right down to the bottom of a case that 
must be unique—a case that has troubled even my mind 
for over a year—and if that isn’t a good reason for stand- 
ing a dinner, I don’t know what is. Cupples, we will not 
go to my club. This is to be a festival, and to be seen in a 
London club in a state of pleasurable emotion is more 
than enough to shatter any man’s career. Besides that, the 
dinner there is always the same, or, at least, they always 
make it taste the same, I know not how. The eternal din- 
ner at my club hath bored millions of members like me, 
and shall bore; but to-night let the feast be spread in vain, 
so far as we are concerned. We will not go where the sa- 
traps throng the hall. We will go to Sheppard’s.’ 

“Who is Sheppard?’ asked Mr. Cupples mildly, as they 
proceeded up Victoria Street. His companion went with 
an unnatural lightness, and a policeman, observing his 
face, smiled indulgently at a look of happiness which he 
could only attribute to alcohol. 

‘Who is Sheppard?’ echoed Trent with bitter emphasis. 
“That question, if you will pardon me for saying so, Cup- 

3 221 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


ples, is thoroughly characteristic of the spirit of aimless 
inquiry prevailing in this restless day. I suggest our dining 
at Sheppard’s, and instantly you fold your arms and de- 
mand, in a frenzy of intellectual pride, to know who 
Sheppard is before you will cross the threshold of Shep- 
pard’s. I am not going to pander to the vices of the mod- 
ern mind. Sheppard’s is a place where one can dine. I do 
not know Sheppard. It never occurred to me that Shep- 
pard existed. Probably he is a myth of totemistic origin. 
All I know is that you can get a bit of saddle of mutton 
at Sheppard’s that has made many an American visitor 
curse the day that Christopher Columbus was born... . 
Taxi!’ 

A cab rolled smoothly to the kerb, and the driver re- 
ceived his instructions with a majestic nod. 

“Another reason I have for suggesting Sheppard’s,’ con- 
tinued Trent, feverishly lighting a cigarette, ‘is that I am 
going to be married to the most wonderful woman in the 
world. I trust the connection of ideas is clear.’ 

“You are going to marry Mabel!’ cried Mr. Cupples. “My 
dear friend, what good news this is! Shake hands, Trent; 
this is glorious! I congratulate you both from the bottom 
of my heart. And may I say—I don’t want to interrupt 
your flow of high spirits, which is very natural indeed, 
and I remember being just the same in similar circum- 
stances long ago—but may I say how earnestly I have 
hoped for this? Mabel has seen so much unhappiness, yet 
she is surely a woman formed in the great purpose of hu- 
manity to be the best influence in the life of a good man. 
But I did not know her mind as regarded yourself. Your 
mind I have known for some time,’ Mr. Cupples went on, 
with a twinkle in his eye that would have done credit to 
the worldliest of creatures. ‘I saw it at once when you were 
both dining at my house, and you sat listening to Pro- 


se | 


THE LAST STRAW 


fessor Peppmiiller and looking at her. Some of us older 
fellows have our wits about us still, my dear boy.’ 

“Mabel says she knew it before that,’ replied Trent, with 
a slightly crestfallen air. ‘And I thought I was acting the 
part of a person who was not mad about her to the life. 
Well, I never was any good at dissembling. I shouldn’t 
wonder if even old Peppmiiller noticed something through 
his double convex lenses. But however crazy I may have 
been as an undeclared suitor, he went on with a return 
to vivacity, ‘I am going to be much worse now. As for 
your congratulations, thank you a thousand times, be- 
cause I know you mean them. You are the sort of uncom- 
fortable brute who would pull a face three feet long if 
you thought we were making a mistake. By the way, I 
can’t help being an ass to-night; I’m obliged to go on 
blithering. You must try to bear it. Perhaps it would be 
easier if I sang you a song—one of your old favourites. 
What was that song you used always to be singing? Like 
_ this, wasn’t it?’ He accompanied the following stave with 
a dexterous clog-step on the floor of the cab: 


“There was an old nigger, and he had a wooden leg. 
He had no tobacco, no tobacco could he beg. 
Another old nigger was as cunning as a fox, 

And he always had tobacco in his old tobacco-box. 


Now for the chorus! 
Yes, he always had tobacco in his old tobacco-box. 


But you're not singing! I thought you would be making 
the welkin ring,’ : 

‘I never sang that song in my life, protested Mr. Cup- 
ples. ‘I never heard it before.’ 

‘Are you sure?’ inquired Trent doubtfully. “Well, I sup- 
pose I must take your word for it. It is a beautiful song, 


am 
———_ 


TRENT ’S LAST CASE 


anyhow: not the whole warbling grove in concert heard 
can beat it. Somehow it seems to express my feelings at 
the present moment as nothing else could; it rises un- 
bidden to the lips. Out of the fullness of the heart the 
mouth speaketh, as the Bishop of Bath and Wells said 
when listening to a speech of Mr. Balfour’s.’ 

“When was that?’ asked Mr. Cupples. 

‘On the occasion,’ replied Trent, ‘of the introduction of 
the Compulsory Notification of Diseases of Poultry Bill, 
which ill-fated measure you of course remember. Hullo!’ 
he broke off, as the cab rushed down a side street and 
swung round a corner into a broad and populous thor- 
oughfare, ‘we’re there already.’ The cab drew up. 

‘Here we are,’ said Trent, as he paid the man, and led 
Mr. Cupples into a long, panelled room set with many 
tables and filled with a hum of talk. “This is the house of 
fulfilment of craving, this is the bower with the roses 
around it. I see there are three bookmakers eating pork 
at my favourite table. We will have that one in the oppo- 
site corner.’ 

He conferred earnestly with a waiter, while Mr. Cup- 
ples, in a pleasant meditation, warmed himself before the 
great fire. “The wine here,’ Trent resumed, as they seated 
themselves, ‘is almost certainly made out of grapes. What 
shall we drink?’ 

Mr. Cupples came out of his reverie. ‘I think,’ he said, 
‘IT will have milk and soda water.’ 

‘Speak lower!’ urged Trent. “The head-waiter has a 
weak heart, and might hear you. Milk and soda water! 
Cupples, you may think you have a strong constitution, 
and I don’t say you have not, but I warn you that this 
habit of mixing drinks has been the death of many a ro- 
buster man than you. Be wise in time. Fill high the bowl 
with Samian wine, leave soda to the Turkish hordes. Here 


224 


THE LAST STRAW 


comes our food.’ He gave another order to the waiter, who 
ranged the dishes before them and darted away. Trent 
was, it seemed, a respected customer. ‘I have sent,’ he said, 
‘for wine that I know, and I hope you will try it. If you 
have taken a vow, then in the name of all the teetotal 
saints drink water, which stands at your elbow, but don’t 
seek a cheap notoriety by demanding milk and soda.’ 

‘I have never taken any pledge,’ said Mr. Cupples, ex- 
amining his mutton with a favourable eye. ‘I simply don’t 
care about wine. I bought a bottle once and drank it to 
see what it was like, and it made me ill. But very likely 
it was bad wine. I will taste some of yours, as it is your 
dinner, and I do assure you, my dear Trent, I should like 
to do something unusual to show how strongly I feel on 
the present occasion. I have not been so delighted for 
many years. To think,’ he reflected aloud as the waiter 
filled his glass, ‘of the Manderson mystery disposed of, of 
the innocent exculpated, and your own and: Mabel’s hap- 
piness crowned—all coming upon me together! I drink 
to you, my dear friend.’ And Mr. Cupples took a very 
small sip of the wine. 

‘You have a great nature,’ said Trent, much moved. 
‘Your outward semblance doth belie your soul’s immen- 
sity. I should have expected as soon to see an elephant 
conducting at the opera as you drinking my health. Dear 
Cupples! May his beak retain ever that delicate rose-stain! 
—No, curse it all!’ he broke out, surprising a shade of dis- 
comfort that flitted over his companion’s face as he tasted 
the wine again. ‘I have no business to meddle with your 
tastes. I apologize. You shall have what you want, even 
if it causes the head-waiter to perish in his pride.’ 

When Mr. Cupples had been supplied with his monas- 
tic drink, and the waiter had retired, Trent looked across 
the table with significance. ‘In this babble of many con 


225 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


versations,’ he said, ‘we can speak as freely as if we were 
on a bare hillside. The waiter is whispering soft nothings 
into the ear of the young woman at the pay-desk. We are 
alone. What do you think of the interview of this after- 
noon?’ He began to dine with an appetite. 

Without pausing in the task of cutting his mutton into 
very small pieces Mr. Cupples replied: “The most curious 
feature of it, in my judgment, was the irony of the situa- 
tion. We both held the clue to that mad hatred of Man- 
derson’s which Marlowe found so mysterious. We knew 
of his jealous obsession; which knowledge we withheld, 
as was very proper, if only in consideration of Mabel’s 
feelings. Marlowe will never know of what he was sus- 
pected by that person. Strange! Nearly all of us, I venture 
to think, move unconsciously among a network of opin- 
ions, often quite erroneous, which other people entertain 
about us. I remember, for instance, discovering quite by 
accident some years ago that a number of people of my 
acquaintance believed me to have been secretly received 
into the Church of Rome. This absurd fiction was based 
upon the fact, which in the eyes of many appeared con- 
clusive, that I had expressed myself in talk as favouring 
the plan of a weekly abstinence from meat. Manderson’s 
belief in regard to his secretary probably rested upon a 
much slighter ground. It was Mr. Bunner, I think you 
said, who told you of his rooted and apparent hereditary 
temper of suspicious jealousy. . . . With regard to Mar- 
lowe’s story, it appeared to me entirely straightforward, 
and not, in its essential features, especially remarkable, 
once we have admitted, as we surely must, that in the case 
of Manderson we have to deal with a more or less disor- 
dered mind.’ 

Trent laughed loudly. ‘I confess,’ he said, ‘that the af- 
fair struck me as a little unusual.’ 


226 


THE LAST STRAW 


‘Only in the development of the details,’ argued Mr. 
Cupples. “What is there abnormal in the essential facts? 
A madman conceives a crazy suspicion; he hatches a cun- 
ning plot against his fancied injurer; it involves his own 
destruction. Put thus, what is there that any man with the 
least knowledge of the ways of lunatics would call re- 
markable? Turn now to Marlowe’s proceedings. He finds 
himself in a perilous position from which, though he is 
innocent, telling the truth will not save him. Is that an 
unheard-of situation? He escaped by means of a bold and 
ingenious piece of deception. That seems to me a thing 
that might happen every day, and probably does so.’ He 
attacked his now unrecognizable mutton. 

‘I should like to know,’ said Trent, after an alimentary 
pause in the conversation, ‘whether there is anything that 
ever happened on the face of the earth that you could not 
represent as quite ordinary and commonplace by such a 

line of argument as that.’ 

A gentle smile illuminated Mr. Cupples’s face. ‘You 
must not suspect me of empty paradox,’ he said. ‘My 
meaning will become clearer, perhaps, if I mention some 
things which do appear to me essentially remarkable. Let 
me see. . . . Well, I would call the life history of the liv- 
er-fluke, which we owe to the researches of Poulton, an 
essentially remarkable thing.’ 

‘I am unable to argue the point, replied Trent. ‘Fair 
science may have smiled upon the liver-fluke’s humble 
birth, but I never even heard it mentioned.’ 

‘It is not, perhaps, an appetizing subject,’ said Mr. Cup- 
_ ples thoughtfully, ‘and I will not pursue it. All I mean is, 
my dear Trent, that there are really remarkable things go- 
ing on all round us if we will only see them, and we do 
our perceptions no credit in regarding as remarkable only 


227 


— 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


those affairs which are surrounded with an accumulation 
of sensational detail.’ 

Trent applauded heartily with his knife-handle on the 
table, as Mr. Cupples ceased and refreshed himself with 
milk and soda water. ‘I have not heard you go on like this 
for years, he said. ‘I believe you must be almost as much 
above yourself as I am. It is a bad case of the unrest which 
men miscall delight. But much as I enjoy it, I am not 
going to sit still and hear the Manderson affair dismissed 
as commonplace. You may say what you like, but the idea 
of impersonating Manderson in those circumstances was 
an extraordinarily ingenious idea.’ 

‘Ingenious—certainly!’ replied Mr. Cupples. “Extraor- 
dinarily so—no! In those circumstances (your own words) 
it was really not strange that it should occur to a clever 
man. It lay almost on the surface of the situation. Mar- 
lowe was famous for his imitation of Manderson’s voice; 
he had a talent for acting; he had a chess-player’s mind; 
he knew the ways of the establishment intimately. I grant 
you that the idea was brilliantly carried out; but every- 
thing favoured it. As for the essential idea, I do not place 
it, as regards ingenuity, in the same class with, for ex- 
ample, the idea of utilizing the force of recoil in a dis- 
charged firearm to actuate the mechanism of ejecting and 
reloading. I do, however, admit, as I did at the outset, 
that in respect of details the case had unusual features. It 
developed a high degree of complexity.’ 

‘Did it really strike you in that way?’ inquired Trent 
with desperate sarcasm. 

“The affair became complicated,’ went on Mr. Cupples 
unmoved, ‘because after Marlowe’s suspicions were awak- 
ened, a second subtle mind came in to interfere with the 
plans of the first. That sort of duel often happens in busi- 


228 


THE LAST STRAW 


ness and politics, but less frequently, I imagine, in the 
world of crime.’ 

‘I should say never,’ Trent replied; ‘and the reason is, 
that even the cleverest criminals seldom run to strategic 
subtlety. When they do, they don’t get caught, since clever 
policemen have if possible less strategic subtlety than the 
ordinary clever criminal. But that rather deep quality 
seems very rarely to go with the criminal make-up. Look 
at Crippen. He was a very clever criminal as they go. He 
solved the central problem of every clandestine murder, 
the disposal of the body, with extreme neatness. But how 
far did he see through the game? The criminal and the 
policeman are often swift and bold tacticians, but neither 
of them is good for more than a quite simple plan. After 
all, it’s a rare faculty in any walk of life.’ 

‘One disturbing reflection was left on my mind,’ said 
Mr. Cupples, who seemed to have had enough of ab- 
stractions for the moment, “by what we learned to-day. 
_ If Marlowe had suspected nothing and walked into the 
trap, he would almost certainly have been hanged. Now 
how often may not a plan to throw the guilt of murder 
on an innocent person have been practised successfully? 
There are, I imagine, numbers of cases in which the ac- 
cused, being found guilty on circumstantial evidence, have 
died protesting their innocence. I shall never approve 
again of a death-sentence imposed in a case decided upon 
such evidence.’ 

‘I never have done so, for my part,’ said Trent. “To hang 
- in such cases seems to me flying in the face of the per- 
fectly obvious and sound principle expressed in the saying 
that “you never can tell.” I agree with the American jurist 
who lays it down that we should not hang a yellow dog 
for stealing jam on circumstantial evidence, not even if 


229 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


he has jam all over his nose. As for attempts being made 
by malevolent persons to fix crimes upon innocent men, 
of course it is constantly happening. It’s a marked feature, 
for instance, of all systems of rule by coercion, whether 
in Ireland or Russia or India or Korea; if the police can- 
not get hold of a man they think dangerous by fair means, 
they do it by foul. But there’s one case in the State Trials 
that is peculiarly to the point, because not only was it a 
case of fastening a murder on innocent people, but the 
plotter did in effect what Manderson did; he gave up his 
own life in order to secure the death of his victims. Prob- 
ably you have heard of the Campden Case.’ 

Mr. Cupples confessed his ignorance and took anothez 
potato. 

‘John Masefield has written a very remarkable play 
about it, said Trent, ‘and if it ever comes on again in 
London, you should go and see it, if you like having the 
fan-tods. I have often seen women weeping in an unde- 
monstrative manner at some slab of oleo-margarine senti- 
ment in the theatre. By George! what everlasting smell- 
ing-bottle hysterics they ought to have if they saw that 
play decently acted! Well, the facts were that John Perry 
accused his mother and brother of murdering a man, and 
swore he had helped them to do it. He told a story full of 
elaborate detail, and had an answer to everything, except 
the curious fact that the body couldn’t be found; but the 
judge, who was probably drunk at the time—this was in 
Restoration days—made nothing of that. The mother and 
brother denied the accusation. All three prisoners were 
found guilty and hanged, purely on John’s evidence. Two 
years after, the man whom they were hanged for murder- 
ing came back to Campden. He had been kidnapped by 
pirates and taken to sea. His disappearance had given John 
his idea. The point about John is, that his including him- 

230 . 


THE LAST STRAW 


self in the accusation, which amounted to suicide, was 
the thing in his evidence which convinced everybody of 
its truth. It was so obvious that no man would do himself 
to death to get somebody else hanged. Now that is exactly 
the answer which the prosecution would have made if 
Marlowe had told the truth. Not one juryman in a mil- 
lion would have believed in the Manderson plot. 

Mr. Cupples mused upon this a few moments. ‘I have 
not your acquaintance with that branch of history,’ he 
said at length, ‘in fact, I have none at all. But certain rec- 
ollections of my own childhood return to me in connec- 
tion with this affair. We know from the things Mabel 
told you what may be termed the spiritual truth underly- 
ing this matter; the insane depth of jealous hatred which 
Manderson concealed. We can understand that he was 
capable of such a scheme. But as a rule it is in the task of 
penetrating to the spiritual truth that the administration of 
justice breaks down. Sometimes that truth is deliberately 
concealed, as in Manderson’s case. Sometimes, I think, it 
is concealed because simple people are actually unable to 
express it, and nobody else divines it. When I was a lad in 
Edinburgh the whole country went mad about the Sandy- 
ford Place murder.’ 

Trent nodded. ‘Mrs. M‘Lachlan’s case. She was inno- 
cent right enough.’ 

‘My parents thought so,’ said Mr. Cupples. ‘I thought 
so myself when I became old enough to read and under- 
stand that excessively sordid story. But the mystery of the 
affair was so dark, and the task of getting at the truth 
behind the lies told by everybody concerned proved so 
hopeless, that others were just as fully convinced of the 
innocence of old James Fleming. All Scotland took sides 
on the question. It was the subject of debates in Parlia- 
ment. The press divided into two camps, and raged with 


231 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


a fury I have never seen equalled. Yet it is obvious, is it 
not?—for I see you have read of the case—that if the spir- 
itual truth about that old man could have been known 
there would have been very little room for doubt in the 
matter. If what some surmised about his disposition was 
true, he was quite capable of murdering Jessie M‘Pherson 
and then casting the blame on the poor feeble-minded 
creature who came so near to suffering the last penalty of 
the law.’ 

‘Even a commonplace old dotard like Fleming can be 
an unfathomable mystery to all the rest of the human 
race,’ said Trent, ‘and most of all in a court of justice. ‘The 
law certainly does not shine when it comes to a case re- 
quiring much delicacy of perception. It goes wrong easily 
enough over the Flemings of this world. As for the people 
with temperaments who get mixed up in legal proceed- 
ings, they must feel as if they were in a forest of apes, 
whether they win or lose. Well, I dare say it’s good for 
their sort to have their noses rubbed in reality now and 
again. But what would twelve red-faced realities in a jury- 
box have done to Marlowe? His story would, as he says, 
have been a great deal worse than no defence at all. It’s 
not as if there were a single piece of evidence in support 
of his tale. Can’t you imagine how the prosecution would 
tear it to rags? Can’t you see the judge simply taking it 
in his stride when it came to the summing up? And the 
jury—you’ve served on juries, I expect—in their room, 
snorting with indignation over the feebleness of the lie, 
telling each other it was the clearest case they ever heard 
of, and that they’d have thought better of him if he hadn’t 
lost his nerve at the crisis, and had cleared off with the 
swag as he intended. Imagine yourself on that jury, not 
knowing Marlowe, and trembling with indignation at 
the record unrolled before you—cupidity, murder, rob- 

232 


THE LAST STRAW 


bery, sudden cowardice, shameless, impenitent, desperate 
lying! Why, you and I believed him to be guilty until——’ 

‘I beg your pardon! I beg your pardon!’ interjected 
Mr. Cupples, laying down his knife and fork. ‘I was most 
careful, when we talked it all over the other night, to 
say nothing indicating such a belief. J was always certain 
that he was innocent.’ 

“You said something of the sort at Marlowe’s just now. 
I wondered what on earth you could mean. Certain that 
he was innocent! How can you be certain? You are gen- 
erally more careful about terms than that, Cupples.’ 

‘I said “certain,”’ Mr. Cupples repeated firmly. 

Trent shrugged his shoulders. “If you really were, after 
reading my manuscript and discussing the whole thing 
as we did,’ he rejoined, ‘then I can only say that you must 
have totally renounced all trust in the operations of the 
human reason; an attitude which, while it is bad Chris- 
tianity and also infernal nonsense, is oddly enough bad 
Positivism too, unless J misunderstand that system. Why, 
man——’ 

‘Let me say a word,’ Mr. Cupples interposed again, fold- 
ing his hands above his plate. ‘I assure you I am far from 
abandoning reason. I am certain he is innocent, and I al- 
ways was certain of it, because of something that I know, 
and knew from the very beginning. You asked me just 
now to imagine myself on the jury at Marlowe’s trial. 
That would be an unprofitable exercise of the mental 
powers, because I know that-I should be present in an- 
other capacity. I should be in the witness-box, giving evi- 
dence for the defence. You said just now, “If there were 
a single piece of evidence in support of his tale.” There is, 
and it is my evidence. And,’ he added quietly, ‘it is con- 
- clusive.’ He took up his knife and fork and went content- 
edly on with his dinner. 


233 


TRENT S LAST CASE 


The pallor of sudden excitement had turned Trent to 
marble while Mr. Cupples led laboriously up to this state- 
ment. At the last word the blood rushed to his face again, 
and he struck the table with an unnatural laugh. ‘It can’t 
be!’ he exploded. ‘It’s something you fancied, something 
you dreamed after one of those debauches of soda and 
milk. You can’t really mean that all the time I was work- 
ing on the case down there you knew Marlowe was inno- 
cent.’ 

Mr. Cupples, busy with his last mouthful, nodded 
brightly. He made an end of eating, wiped his sparse 
moustache, and then leaned forward over the table. ‘It’s 
very simple,’ he said. ‘I shot Manderson myself.’ 


‘I am afraid I startled you, Trent heard the voice of 
Mr. Cupples say. He forced himself out of his stupefaction 
like a diver striking upward for the surface, and with a 
rigid movement raised his glass. But half of the wine 
splashed upon the cloth, and he put it carefully down 
again untasted. He drew a deep breath, which was ex- 
haled in a laugh wholly without merriment. ‘Go on,’ he 
said. | | 

‘Tt was not murder,’ began Mr. Cupples, slowly meas- 
uring off inches with a fork on the edge of the table. ‘I 
will tell you the whole story. On that Sunday night I was 
taking my before-bedtime constitutional, having set out 
from the hotel about a quarter past ten. I went along the 
field path that runs behind White Gables, cutting off the 
great curve of the road, and came out on the road nearly 
opposite that gate that is just by the eighth hole on the 
golf-course. Then I turned in there, meaning to walk 
along the turf to the edge of the cliff, and go back that 


234 


THE LAST STRAW 


way. I had only gone a few steps when IJ heard the car 
coming, and then I heard it stop near the gate. I saw Man- 
derson at once. Do you remember my telling you I had 
seen him once alive after our quarrel in front of the hotel ? 
Well, this was the time. You asked me if I had, and I did 
not care to tell a falsehood.’ 

A slight groan came from Trent. He drank a little wine, 
and said stonily, ‘Go on, please.’ 

‘It was, as you know,’ pursued Mr. Cupples, ‘a moon- 
light night, but I was in shadow under the trees by the 
stone wall, and anyhow they could not suppose there was 
anyone near them. I heard all that passed just as Mar- 
lowe has narrated it to us, and I saw the car go off towards 
Bishopsbridge. I did not see Manderson’s face as it went, 
because his back was to me, but he shook the back of his 
left hand at the car with extraordinary violence, greatly 
. to my amazement. Then I waited for him to go back to 
White Gables, as I did not want to meet him again. But 
he did not go. He opened the gate through which I had 
just passed, and he stood there on the turf of the green, 
quite still. His head was bent, his arms hung at his sides, 
and he looked somehow—rigid. For a few moments he 
remained in this tense attitude, then all of a sudden his 
right arm moved swiftly, and his hand was at the pocket 
_of his overcoat. I saw his face raised in the moonlight, the 
teeth bared, and the eyes glittering, and all at once I knew 
that the man was not sane. Almost as quickly as that 
flashed across my mind, something else flashed in the 
moonlight. He held the pistol before him, pointing at 
his breast. 

‘Now I may say here I shall always be doubtful wheth- 
er Manderson really meant to kill himself then. Marlowe 
naturally thinks so, knowing nothing of my intervention. 

235 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


But I think it quite likely he only meant to wound him- 
self, and to charge Marlowe with attempted murder and 
robbery. 

‘At that moment, however, I assumed it was suicide. 
Before I knew what I was doing I had leapt out of the 
shadows and seized his arm. He shook me off with a 
furious snarling noise, giving me a terrific blow in the 
chest, and presenting the revolver at my head. But I seized 
his wrists before he could fire, and clung with all my 
strength—you remember how bruised and scratched they 
were. I knew I was fighting for my own life now, for 
murder was in his eyes. We struggled like two beasts, 
without an articulate word, I holding his pistol-hand down 
and keeping a grip on the other. I never dreamed that I 
had the strength for such an encounter. Then, with a per- 
fectly instinctive movement—I never knew I meant to do 
it—I flung away his free hand and clutched like lightning 
at the weapon, tearing it from his fingers. By a miracle it 
did not go off. I darted back a few steps, he sprang at my 
throat like a wild cat, and I fired blindly in his face. He 
would have been about a yard away, I suppose. His knees 
gave way instantly, and he fell in a heap on the turf. 

‘T flung the pistol down and bent over him. The heart’s 
action ceased under my hand. J knelt there staring, struck 
motionless; and I don’t know how long it was before I 
heard the noise of the car returning. 

‘Trent, all the time that Marlowe paced that green, 
with the moonlight on his white and working face, I was 
within a few yards of him, crouching in the shadow of 
the furze by the ninth tee. I dared not show myself. I was 
thinking. My public quarrel with Manderson the same © 
morning was, I suspected, the talk of the hotel. I assure 
you that every horrible possibility of the situation for me 
had rushed across my mind the moment I saw Mander- 


236 


THE LAST STRAW 


son fall. I became cunning. I knew what I must do. I must 
get back to the hotel as fast as-I could, get in somehow un- 
perceived, and play a part to save myself. I must never 
tell a word to anyone. Of course I was assuming that 
Marlowe would tell everyone how he had found the body. 
I knew he would suppose it was suicide; I thought every- 
one would suppose so. 

“When Marlowe began at last to lift the body, I stole 
away down the wall and got out into the road by the 
club-house, where he could not see me. I felt perfectly 
cool and collected. I crossed the road, climbed the fence, 
and ran across the meadow to pick up the field path I 
had come by that runs to the hotel behind White Gables. 
I got back to the hotel very much out of breath.’ 

‘Out of breath, repeated Trent mechanically, still star- 
ing at his companion as if hypnotized. , 

‘I had had a sharp run, Mr. Cupples reminded him. 
‘Well, approaching the hotel from the back I could see 
into the writing-room through the open window. There 
was nobody in there, so I climbed over the sill, walked 
to the bell and rang it, and then sat down to write a letter 
I had meant to write the next day. I saw by the clock that 
it was a little past eleven. When the waiter answered the 
bell I asked for a glass of milk and a postage stamp. Soon 
afterwards I went up to bed. But I could not sleep.’ 

Mr. Cupples, having nothing more to say, ceased speak- 
ing. He looked in mild surprise at Trent, who now sat 
silent, supporting his bent head in his hands. 

‘He could not sleep,’ murmured Trent at last in a hol- 
low tone. ‘A frequent result of over-exertion during the 
day. Nothing to be alarmed about.’ He was silent again, 
then looked up with a pale face. ‘Cupples, I am cured. I 
will never touch a crime-mystery again. The Manderson 


affair shall be Philip Trent’s last case. His high-blown 
237 


TRENT’S LAST CASE 


pride at length breaks under him.’ Trent’s smile suddenly 
returned. ‘I could have borne everything but that last reve- 
lation of the impotence of human reason. Cupples, I have 
absolutely nothing left to say, except this: you have beaten 
me. I drink your health in a spirit of self-abasement. And 
you shall pay for the dinner.’ 








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